“Yes; to Australia. My agreement with Dr. Forrest terminates this month, and now that my uncle Neville Williams is dead, I have nothing particular to keep me at home. Unless----” His face lit up with sudden hope; he looked at her appealingly. What he was going to say, however, died on his lips, for he heard the old doctor talking to Karne outside the door. With a swift movement he seated himself at the piano, and wandered off into the pathetic harmonies of Schumann’s “_Warum?_” Celia remained standing by the mantelpiece, with bent head and solemn eyes. It had come as a revelation to her, the knowledge of Geoffrey’s love. Oh, if she had only known before! Why had he not told her? But it was too late now. She had promised herself to David Salmon; she would be true to her promise; she _must_ be true, cost her what it might. A touch on her shoulder interrupted her reverie. Her brother was standing at her side; his face was pale, and he looked disturbed. “Celia dear, I have just received bad news,” he said, with some agitation. “Bad news from South Africa. It has come very suddenly. I am afraid it will give you a shock, but it is best that you should know it at once--your father is dead.” Geoffrey’s hands fell on the keys with a discordant crash; the news came as the death-blow to his hopes. Celia scanned the cablegram which Herbert handed to her:-- “Mr. Bernie Franks died suddenly to-day; sudden failure of the heart’s action. Wire instructions.--Bell and Boyd, solicitors, Capetown.” “Dear father--dead!” she exclaimed, in an awestruck voice. But she did not show signs of grief; it was impossible that she should sorrow deeply for one whom she could barely remember. It touched her, however, to think that he had died out at the Cape, all alone. She wished she had been with him at the last. Dr. Forrest came forward and tendered his sympathetic condolence, after which he took his leave. Geoffrey Milnes also rose to go. His brain was on fire, his mind in a tumult, but he managed to utter a formal sentence of sympathy; in his confusion he almost blundered into congratulating Celia on acquiring her father’s fortune. “I suppose I shall see you again?” he asked wistfully, as he pressed her hand at parting. “It is probable that I shall sail on Saturday week.” Celia’s eyes were humid, and her lips quivered; she could not control herself sufficiently to reply. “So you have decided to go?” said Karne, almost cheerfully. “Ah, well, there is nothing like a little knocking about the world to put grit into a man. It will make you hard as nails, Geoff--and that’s what we have to be in this world, old chap,” he added with a sigh. “Hard as nails, and equally as tough.” CHAPTER XII DAVID SALMON PAYS A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE