He took the letter; he made a step with it towards the door, seeking solitude; then, as an afterthought, he looked at the superscription. It was addressed to the same person, Miss Chyne, but in a different handwriting--the handwriting of a man well educated but little used to wielding the pen. “The other,” mumbled Sir John. “The other man, by God!” And, with a smile that sat singularly on his withered face, he took up a newspaper and went towards the fireplace, where he sat stiffly in an armchair, taking an enormous interest in the morning's news. He read a single piece of news three times over, and a fourth time in a whisper, so as to rivet his attention upon it. He would not admit that he was worsted--would not humble his pride even before the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Before Millicent came down, looking very fresh and pretty in her tweed dress, the butler had sorted the letters. There were only two upon her plate--the twin envelopes addressed by different hands. Sir John was talking with a certain laboured lightness to Lady Cantourne, when that lady's niece came into the room. He was watching keenly. There was a certain amount of interest in the question of those two envelopes, as to which she would open first. She looked at each in turn, glanced furtively towards Sir John, made a suitable reply to some remark addressed to her by the baron, and tore open Jack's envelope. There was a gravity--a concentrated gravity--about her lips as she unfolded the thin paper; and Sir John, who knew the world and the little all-important trifles thereof, gave an impatient sigh. It is the little trifle that betrays the man, and not the larger issues of life in which we usually follow precedent. It was that passing gravity (of the lips only) that told Sir John more about Millicent Chyne than she herself knew, and what he had learnt did not seem to be to his liking. There is nothing so disquieting as the unknown motive, which disquietude was Sir John's soon after breakfast. The other men dispersed to put on gaiters and cartridge-bags, and the old aristocrat took his newspaper on to the terrace. Millicent followed him almost at once. “Sir John,” she said, “I have had a letter from Africa.” Did she take it for granted that he knew this already? Was this spontaneous? Had Jack told her to do it? These questions flashed through the old man's mind as his eyes rested on her pretty face. He was beginning to be afraid of this girl: which showed his wisdom. For the maiden beautiful is a stronger power in the world than the strong man. The proof of which is that she gets her own way more often than the strong man gets his. “From Africa?” repeated Sir John Meredith, with a twitching lip. “And from whom is your letter, my dear young lady?” His face was quite still, his old eyes steady, as he waited for the answer. “From Jack.” Sir John winced inwardly. Outwardly he smiled and folded his newspaper upon his knees.