Suzette had brought comfort to the lonely life. Together she and Mrs. Wornock had read books of African travel, explored maps, and followed the route of the travellers. General Vincent was a fellow of the Geographical Society, and the monthly report issued by that society kept his daughter informed of the latest progress in the history of exploration, while the Society's library was at her disposal for books of travel. It seemed to Suzette in that quiet year after her home-coming that she read nothing but African books, and began almost to think in the Swahili language--picking up words in every chapter, till they became as familiar as French phrases in a society novel. She was quieter than of old, people said: less interested in golf: caring nothing for a church bazaar which was the one absorbing topic in that particular summer; wrapped up in her musical studies, and practising a great deal too much, as officious friends informed General Vincent. "Suzette must do what she likes," he said; "she has always been my master." But egged on by the same officious friends, he bought his daughter a horse, and insisted on her riding with him, and they went for long rides over the downs, and sometimes were lucky enough to fall in with the hawks, and see a few innocent rooks slaughtered high up in the blue of an April sky. He shrank from questioning his daughter about the young men who were gone. She had been very ill--languid, and white, and wan, and spiritless--when he carried her off to Germany, and had required a good deal of patching up before she became anything like the happy, active, high-spirited Suzette of the Indian hills--who had charmed everybody, old and young, by her bright prettiness and joy in life. German waters, German woods and hills, followed by a winter on the Riviera, and a long holiday by the Italian lakes, had set her up again; and General Vincent was content to wait till time should unravel the mystery of a maiden's heart. "Those young men will come back," he told his sister; "and then I shouldn't wonder if Geoffrey were to renew his offer--and to be accepted; for since she gave Allan the sack without any provocation, I conclude it's Geoffrey she cares for." "I wash my hands of her and her love affairs," Mrs. Mornington retorted waspishly. "She might have married Allan--a young man who adored her--and a very good match. _Very_ good now his father's gone. She jilted Allan--one would suppose solely because she was in love with Geoffrey. Oh dear no! She refuses Geoffrey, and sends two excellent young men--each an only son, with a stake in the country--to bake themselves black in a wilderness where they will very likely be eaten after they are baked. I have no patience with her." "Don't be cross, Molly. There's no use worrying about her lovers. Thank God she has recovered her health, and is my own sweet little girl still." "Sweet little fiddlestick, coquette, weathercock, jilt! That's what she is."