Five minutes later he was walking her round the married quarters of his Houssas, telling her the story of his earliest love affair. She was an excellent listener, and seldom interrupted him save to ask if there was any insanity in his family, or whether the girl was short-sighted; in fact, as Bones afterwards said, it might have been Hamilton himself. "What on earth are they finding to talk about?" wondered Sanders, watching the confidences from the depths of a big cane chair on the verandah. "Bones," replied Hamilton lazily, "is telling her the story of his life and how he saved the territories from rebellion. He's also begging her not to breathe a word of this to me for fear of hurting my feelings." At that precise moment Bones was winding up a most immodest recital of his accomplishments with a less immodest footnote. "Of course, dear old Miss Hamilton," he was saying, lowering his voice, "I shouldn't like a word of this to come to your jolly old brother's ears. He's an awfully good sort, but naturally in competition with an agile mind like mine, understanding the native as I do, he hasn't an earthly----" "Why don't you write the story of your adventures?" she asked innocently. "It would sell like hot cakes." Bones choked with gratification. "Precisely my idea--oh, what a mind you've got! What a pity it doesn't run in the family! I'll tell you a precious secret--not a word to anybody--honest?" "Honest," she affirmed. Bones looked round. "It's practically ready for the publisher," he whispered, and stepped back to observe the effect of his words. She shook her head in admiration, her eyes were dancing with delight, and Bones realized that here at last he had met a kindred soul. "It must be awfully interesting to write books," she sighed. "I've tried--but I can never invent anything." "Of course, in my case----" corrected Bones. "I suppose you just sit down with a pen in your hand and imagine all sorts of things," she mused, directing her feet to the Residency. "This is the story of my life," explained Bones earnestly. "Not fiction ... but all sorts of adventures that actually happened." "To whom?" she asked. "To me," claimed Bones, louder than was necessary. "Oh!" she said. "Don't start 'Oh-ing,'" said Bones in a huff. "If you and I are going to be good friends, dear old Miss Hamilton, don't say 'Oh!'" "Don't be a bully, Bones." She turned on him so fiercely that he shrank back. "Play the game," he said feebly; "play the game, dear old sister!" She led him captive to the stoep and deposited him in the easiest chair she could find. From that day he ceased to be anything but a slave, except on one point. The question of missions came up at tiffin, and Miss Hamilton revealed the fact that she favoured the High Church and held definite views on the clergy. Bones confessed that he was a Wesleyan. "Do you mean to tell me that you're a Nonconformist?" she asked incredulously.