"Well," said Sidney gaily, "our present is rather a nasty one. I'm treading water in my shoes, and haven't a dry inch on me, but we're not taking it to heart much; we're getting home—on our way there—and the thought of the fires and food and comforts that will be ours makes us think lightly of the present, does it not?" "You're going home," said Randolph with emphasis. "We've all got the same home at the end of life—at least, we can have it if we want to—and we're getting home, that's what I keep saying to myself." Strange memories crowded into Randolph's heart. He had had a good mother, and he knew that she had reached home and expected to see him there. In a vague fashion, he expected to meet her again; but he had never troubled his head about the way to do it. He felt as if he would like to walk on for ever, listening to Sidney's soft bright voice as she spoke so naturally of the things that were usually locked away from ordinary conversation. They tramped along; from grave subjects they turned to gay; once Sidney spoke regretfully of her father and his anxiety. "I wouldn't make him uneasy for worlds. I do hope, he hasn't sallied out anywhere after me. He has had a cold, and his throat is always delicate. What a dinner party for you! I really think you most long-suffering not to be enraged with me!" "I haven't missed my dinner," said Randolph quietly; "but this will be my last visit to you. I am off to-morrow." "Are you, really? We—my father will miss you." "Why did you correct yourself?" Randolph asked with a short laugh. "I should like to think you missed me. I haven't too many friends; perhaps it's as well. The fewer you have, the fewer you lose. They want me in town about a billet abroad." "Why do you leave poor old England? I heard you were a good speaker. We have not many at present in Parliament." Then Randolph spoke with passion underlying his tone: "They are offering me a frontier post. I shall have things my own way there; but it's a disgrace to the Empire at present. I shall get a chance of a good sweep out, and a general clean up. If I can clean one corner for the country and keep it clean, it's better work than fighting for party, and swallowing one's convictions and conscience with one gulp." "Yes," said Sidney slowly; "perhaps. And we want strong men for those isolated frontiers. You are going to accept it?" "Most certainly. I am a single man and have no ties; there isn't a soul who will miss me. I have nothing and nobody to keep me at home." Bitterness was in his tone. "Oh, don't say that." "It's true. You were good enough to hint you might miss me down here. But for how long? A month hence your remembrance of me will be vague. A few years hence you may take up a paper and read of the death by fever or some such epidemic of a certain Randolph Neville. And you will say to your father, 'Wasn't that the man who visited Monnie once? I seem to remember the name.'"