He paused, suddenly recollecting that he was treading on somewhat dangerous ground, for Celia’s father, Bernie Franks, was a well-known Capetown financier and former money-lender, and his reputation was not of the best. Nevertheless, Bernie Frank’s daughter was, like Jessica, a sweet and lovable girl. Geoffrey Milnes thought her the sweetest girl in the world, but he had not the courage to tell her so. He had allowed himself to fall in love with her, knowing that such a love was quite hopeless, and could only cause them both unhappiness and pain. There was the barrier of race and faith between them, and he knew that neither his people nor hers would sanction their marriage, even if Celia really loved him--and he was not sure that such was the case. The church bells were ringing for Evensong, and Geoffrey was obliged to take his leave. Herbert Karne accompanied him part of his way, and Celia went into the house singing blithely. She, at least, was perfectly heart-whole as yet. CHAPTER III THE BARRIER OF RACE AND FAITH The studio at the Towers was built on elevated ground at the north side of the house; and was approached by a short flight of steps leading from the hall. From where the artist sat at his easel, he could obtain a bird’s-eye view of Durlston, which consisted of chimney-pots and church spires, relieved by a small park in the centre of the town, with grassy fields surrounding it; and, beyond that, the smoky haze of a manufacturing city. There was not much in the prospect from which to derive inspiration, but it was all-sufficient for Herbert Karne. He liked to look up from his picture and note the varying aspect of his garden at the different seasons of the year. There was always something new to see and admire, for Nature is ever-changing, and Herbert knew of every bud that blossomed, and every flower that bloomed. It was autumn now, the season of decay. The richly tinted leaves were falling fast, and made quite a thick carpet on the gravelled paths. The trees, which but a few months ago had been so fresh and green, were adopting sombre hues of golden-brown. Some of them were already bare, and waved their gaunt arms in the breeze as though in warning. “Life and youth are short,” they seemed to say, “and all must die.” The artist’s brain was busy as he worked. He cast his mind back to the time of his mother’s death, some twelve years ago. Her second marriage had not been a success, for Bernie Franks had never properly understood her refined and gentle nature; so that when, attacked by the money-making fever, he went off to Johannesburg to make his fortune, his wife, on the plea of delicate health, remained at home with her two children.