“Ah, from my brilliant son. That is interesting.” “Have you had one?” she asked, in prompt payment of his sarcasm. Sir John Meredith looked up with a queer little smile. He admired the girl's spirit. It was the smile of the fencer on touching worthy steel. “No, my dear young lady, I have not. Mr. John Meredith does not find time to write to me--but he draws his allowance from the bank with a filial regularity.” Millicent had the letter in her hand. She made it crinkle in her fingers within a foot of the old gentleman's face. A faint odour of the scent she used reached his nostrils. He drew back a little, as if he disliked it. His feeling for her almost amounted to a repugnance. “I thought you might like to hear that he is well,” she said gently. She was reading the address on the envelope, and again he saw that look of concentrated gravity which made him feel uneasy for reasons of his own. “It is very kind of you to throw me even that crumb from your richly-stored intellectual table. I am very glad to hear that he is well. A whole long letter from him must be a treat indeed.” She thought of a proverb relating to the grapes that are out of reach, but said nothing. It was the fashion that year to wear little flyaway jackets with a coquettish pocket on each side. Millicent was wearing one of them, and she now became aware that Sir John had glanced more than once with a certain significance towards her left hand, which happened to be in that pocket. It, moreover, happened that Guy Oscard's letter was in the same receptacle. She withdrew the hand and changed colour slightly as she became conscious that the corner of the envelope was protruding. “I suppose that by this time,” said Sir John pleasantly, “you are quite an authority upon African matters?” His manner was so extremely conversational and innocent that she did not think it necessary to look for an inner meaning. She was relieved to find that the two men, having actually met, spoke of each other frankly. It was evident that Guy Oscard could be trusted to keep his promise, and Jack Meredith was not the man to force or repose a confidence. “He does not tell me much about Africa,” she replied, determined to hold her ground. She was engaged to be married to Jack Meredith, and whether Sir John chose to ignore the fact or not she did not mean to admit that the subject should be tabooed. “No--I suppose he has plenty to tell you about himself and his prospects?” “Yes, he has. His prospects are not so hopeless as you think.” “My dear Miss Chyne,” protested Sir John, “I know nothing about his prospects beyond the fact that, when I am removed from this sphere of activity, he will come into possession of my title, such as it is, and my means, such as they are.” “Then you attach no importance to the work he is inaugurating in Africa?”