“Not the least. I did not even know that he was endeavouring to work. I only trust it is not manual labour--it is so injurious to the finger-nails. I have no sympathy with a gentleman who imagines that manual labour is compatible with his position, provided that he does not put his hand to the plough in England. Is not there something in the Scriptures about a man putting his hand to the plough and looking back? If Jack undertakes any work of that description, I trust that he will recognise the fact that he forfeits his position by doing so.” “It is not manual labour--I can assure you of that.” “I am glad to hear it. He probably sells printed cottons to the natives, or exchanges wrought metal for ivory--an intellectual craft. But he is gaining experience, and I suppose he thinks he is going to make a fortune.” It happened that this was precisely the thought expressed by Jack Meredith in the letter in Millicent's hand. “He is sanguine,” she admitted. “Of course. Quite right. Pray do not discourage him--if you find time to write. But between you and me, my dear Miss Chyne, fortunes are not made in Africa. I am an old man, and I have some experience of the world. That part of it which is called Africa is not the place where fortunes are made. It is as different from India as chalk is from cheese, if you will permit so vulgar a simile.” Millicent's face dropped. “But SOME people have made fortunes there.” “Yes--in slaves! But that interesting commerce is at an end. However, so long as my son does not suffer in health, I suppose we must be thankful that he is creditably employed.” He rose as he spoke. “I see,” he went on, “your amiable friend the baron approaching with lawn-tennis necessaries. It is wonderful that our neighbours never learn to keep their enthusiasm for lawn-tennis in bounds until the afternoon.” With that he left her, and the baron came to the conclusion, before very long, that something had “contraried” the charming Miss Chyne. The truth was that Millicent was bitterly disappointed. The idea of failure had never entered her head since Jack's letters, full of life and energy, had begun to arrive. Sir John Meredith was a man whose words commanded respect--partly because he was an old man whose powers of perception had as yet apparently retained their full force, and the vast experience of life which was his could hardly be overrated. Man's prime is that period when the widest experience and the keenest perception meet. Millicent Chyne had lulled herself into a false security. She had taken it for granted that Jack would succeed, and would return rich and prosperous within a few months. Upon this pleasant certainty Sir John had cast a doubt, and she could hardly treat his words with contempt. She had almost forgotten Guy Oscard's letter. Across a hemisphere Jack Meredith was a stronger influence in her life than Oscard.