"Ronnie dear, I admit that not many Johnnies could write your books. But most Johnnies can fly, now-a-days! You must be more up-to-date in your similes, old boy; or you will have your wife writing to the papers, remarking that you are behind the times! But, seriously, Ronnie, you should be grateful to anybody who takes the trouble to point out an error, however small, in one of your books. You are keen that your work should be perfect; and if a mistake is mentioned, it can be set right. Why, surely you remember, when you read me the scene in the manuscript you wrote just after our marriage, in which a good lady could not sit down upon a small chair, owing to her _toupet_, I--your admiring and awestruck wife--ventured to point out that a _toupet_ was not a crinoline; and you were quite grateful, Ronnie. You did not consider me an unappreciative Johnny, nor even a mediocre person! Who has, unknown to me, been trampling on your susceptibilities?" "Nobody, thank goodness! I have never written a scene yet, of which I had not carefully verified every detail of the setting. But it has happened lots of times to people I know. Unimportant slips never seem to me to matter in another fellow's work, but they would matter desperately, horribly, appallingly in one's own. Therefore, nothing will ever induce me to place the plot of a novel of mine, in surroundings with which I am not completely familiar. Helen--I must go to Central Africa." CHAPTER II THE SOB OF THE WOMAN Helen took off her riding-hat, and passed her fingers through the abundant waves of her hair. "How long would it take you, Ronnie?" "Well--including the journey out, and the journey back, I ought to have a clear seven months. If we could get off in a fortnight, we might be back early in November; anyway, in plenty of time for Christmas." "Why do you say 'we,' darling?" "Why not say 'we'? We always do, don't we?" "Yes, dear. For three happy years it has always been 'we,' in everything. We have not been parted for longer than twelve hours at a time, Ronnie. But I fear Central Africa cannot be 'we.' I do not feel that I could go out there with you." "Helen! Why not? I thought you would be keen on it. I thought you were game to go anywhere!" Amazement and dismay were in his eyes. She rose slowly, went over to the mantel-piece, moved some little porcelain figures, then put them back again. When at length she spoke, she steadied her voice with an effort. "Ronnie dear, Central Africa is not a place for a woman." "But, my dearest girl, a woman arrives there in my story! She crawls into the long grass with the man she loves, and disappears. Our missionary's bride did it. Where a woman could not go, _I_ must not go for my local colour. Oh, I say, Helen! You won't fail me?" He walked over to the window, and drummed again, with restless, nervous fingers, upon the _In hoc vince_ pane. She came behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder.