“Are you to be married at once?” inquired Jocelyn, with that frank interest which makes it so much easier for a man to talk of his own affairs to a woman than to one of his own sex. “As soon as I can arrange it,” he answered with a little laugh. “There is nothing to wait for. We are both orphans, and, fortunately, we are fairly well off.” He was fumbling in his breast-pocket, and presently he rose, crossed the room, and handed her, quite without afterthought or self-consciousness, a photograph in a morocco case. Explanation was unnecessary, and Jocelyn Gordon looked smilingly upon a smiling, bright young face. “She is very pretty,” she said honestly. Whereupon Guy Oscard grunted unintelligibly. “Millicent,” he said after a little pause--“Millicent is her name.” “Millicent?” repeated Jocelyn--“Millicent WHAT?” “Millicent Chyne.” Jocelyn folded the morocco case together and handed it back to him. “She is very pretty,” she repeated slowly, as if her mind could only reproduce--it was incapable of creation. Oscard looked puzzled. Having risen he did not sit down again, and presently he took his leave, feeling convinced that Jocelyn was about to faint. When he was gone the girl sat wearily down. “Millicent Chyne,” she whispered. “What is to be done?” “Nothing,” she answered to herself after a while. “Nothing. It is not my business. I can do nothing.” She sat there--alone, as she had been all her life--until the short tropical twilight fell over the forest. Quite suddenly she burst into tears. “It IS my business,” she sobbed. “It is no good pretending otherwise; but I can do nothing.” CHAPTER XXII. THE SECOND CONSIGNMENT Who has lost all hope has also lost all fear. Among others, it was a strange thing that Jocelyn felt no surprise at meeting the name of Millicent Chyne on the lips of another man. Women understand these things better than we do. They understand each other, and they seem to have a practical way of accepting human nature as it is which we never learn to apply to our fellowmen. They never bluster as we do, nor expect impossibilities from the frail. Another somewhat singular residue left, as it were, in Jocelyn's mind when the storm of emotion had subsided was a certain indefinite tenderness for Millicent Chyne. She felt sure that Jack Meredith's feeling for her was that feeling vaguely called the right one, and, as such, unalterable. To this knowledge the subtle sympathy for Millicent was perhaps attributable. But navigation with pen and thought among the shoals and depths of a woman's heart is hazardous and uncertain. Coupled with this--as only a woman could couple contradictions--was an unpardoning abhorrence for the deceit practised. But Jocelyn knew the world well enough to suspect that, if she were ever brought face to face with her meanness, Millicent would be able to bring about her own forgiveness. It is the knowledge of this lamentable fact that undermines the feminine sense of honour.