At last a fluttering moth gave the excuse her heart longed for, and her fingers rested for a moment, light as the moth itself, on his hair. There was something in the touch which made him open his eyes--uncomprehending at first, and then filled with a sudden life. “Ah!” he said, “you--you at last!” He took her hand in both of his. He was weakened by illness and a great fatigue. Perhaps he was off his guard, or only half awake. “I never should have got better if you had not come,” he said. Then, suddenly, he seemed to recall himself, and rose with an effort from his recumbent position. “I do not know,” he said, with a return of his old half-humorous manner, “whether to thank you first for your hospitality or to beg your pardon for making such unscrupulous use of it.” She was looking at him closely as he stood before her, and all her knowledge of human ills as explored on the West Coast of Africa, all her experience, all her powers of observation, were on the alert. He did not look very ill. The brown of a year's sunburn such as he had gone through on the summit of an equatorial mountain where there was but little atmosphere between earth and sun, does not bleach off in a couple of months. Physically regarded, he was stronger, broader, heavier-limbed, more robust, than when she had last seen him--but her knowledge went deeper than complexion, or the passing effort of a strong will. “Sit down,” she said quietly. “You are not strong enough to stand about.” He obeyed her with a little laugh. “You do not know,” he said, “how pleasant it is to see you--fresh and English-looking. It is like a tonic. Where is Maurice?” “He will be here soon,” she replied; “he is attending to the landing of the stores. We shall soon make you strong and well; for we have come laden with cases of delicacies for your special delectation. Your father chose them himself at Fortnum and Mason's.” He winced at the mention of his father's name, and drew in his legs in a peculiar, decisive way. “Then you knew I was ill?” he said, almost suspiciously. “Yes, Joseph telegraphed.” “To whom?” sharply. “To Maurice.” Jack Meredith nodded his head. It was perhaps just as well that the communicative Joseph was not there at that moment. “We did not expect you for another ten days,” said Meredith after a little pause, as if anxious to change the subject. “Marie said that your brother's leave was not up until the week after next.” Jocelyn turned away, apparently to close the window. She hesitated. She could not tell him what had brought them back sooner--what had demanded of Maurice Gordon the sacrifice of ten days of his holiday. “We do not always take our full term,” she said vaguely. And he never saw it. The vanity of man is a strange thing. It makes him see intentions that were never conceived; and without vanity to guide his perception man is as blind a creature as walks upon this earth.