"Yes--she married her cousin George, my nephew. You remember him," she went on. "I was against it for a long time; but, after all, I believe it was the saving of him, poor fellow, he was so wildly in love with her. He was simply going to the dogs. Yes, it was the saving of him." "That's satisfactory, anyway," said Laurence, as though he were discussing the fortunes of any two people whose names he had just heard for the first time. But meanwhile his mind was inwardly avenging itself upon its outward self-control. For vividly, and as though spoken into his ears, there seemed to float fragments of those farewell words uttered there in that room: "_You have drawn my very heart and soul into yours.... Oh, it is too bitter! Laurence, my darling--my love, my life, my ideal, good-bye--and good-bye!_" Well, the foolish dream had been a pleasant one while it lasted. Nay, more,--in all seriousness it had borne momentous fruit,--for no less than three times had that episode--yes, now it seemed a mere episode--intervened between him and death. "Lilith will be so glad to see you when you are passing through; for of course you will be returning home again. They have taken a bungalow at Kalk Bay for the summer. I'll find you the address." They talked on a little longer, and then Laurence took his departure. As he gained the outer air once more there was that about the shimmer of the sunlight, the hum of the battery stamp, the familiarity of the surroundings, which reminded him of that former time when he had thus stepped forth, having bidden a good-bye which was not a good-bye. Yet the same pain did not grip around his heart now--not in its former acuteness--rather was it now a sense of the falling away of all things. By a freak of psychology his mind reverted to poor Lindela, dying in his arms in the steamy gloom of the equatorial forest: dying slowly, by inches, in pain; yet uttering no cry, no complaint, lest she should rob him of a few minutes more or less of sleep. That was indeed love. Still, even while making it, his sense of philosophy told him the comparison was not a fair one. Well, that was over--another chapter in his life to shut down. Now to make the best of life. Now, with the means to taste its pleasures, with hard, firm health to enjoy them; after all, what was a mere sentimental grievance? Perhaps it counted for something, for all he told himself to the contrary. Perhaps deep down there gnawed a restless craving, stifle it as he would. Who can tell? "The R. M. S. _Alnwick Castle_ leaves for England at 4 P. M." Such was the notice which, posted up in shipping office, or in the short paragraph column of the Cape Town newspapers, met the public eye.