ssed her. In that quiet corner of Hampshire in which her early
years had been spent, among the memories of her dead kindred, the pride
of her race had grown to unreasonable proportions; and now in the
reaction she was terrified lest its decadence was in her, too, and in
George. She could do nothing but suffer whatever pain it pleased the
gods to send; but George was a man. In him were placed all her hopes.
But now and again wild panic seized her. Then the agony was too great to
bear, and she pressed her hands to her eyes in order to drive away the
hateful thought: what if George failed her? She knew well enough that he
had his father's engaging ways and his father's handsome face; but his
father had had a smile as frank and a charm as great. What if with the
son, too, they betokened only insincerity and weakness? A malicious
devil whispered in her ear that now and again she had averted her eyes
in order not to see George do things she hated. But it was youth that
drove him. She had taken care to keep from him knowledge of the sordid
struggles that occupied her, and how could she wonder if he was reckless
and uncaring? She would not doubt him, she could not doubt him, for if
anything went wrong with him there was no hope left. She could only
cease to believe in herself.

When Lucy was allowed to write to her father, she set herself to cheer
him. The thought that over five years must elapse before she would have
him by her side once more, paralysed her pen; but she would not allow
herself to be discouraged. And she sought to give courage to him. She
wanted him to see that her love was undiminished, and that he could
count on it. Presently she received a letter from him. After a few
weeks, the unaccustomed food, the change of life, had told upon him; and
a general breakdown in his health had driven him into the infirmary.
Lucy was thankful for the respite which his illness afforded. It must be
a little less dreary in a prison hospital than in a prison cell.

A letter came from George, and another from Alec. Alec's was brief,
telling of their journey down the Red Sea and their arrival at Mombassa;
it was abrupt and awkward, making no reference to his love, or to the
engagement which she had almost promised to make when he returned. He
began and ended quite formally. George, apparently in the best of
spirits, wrote as he always did, in a boyish, inconsequent fashion. His
letter was filled with slang and gave no news. There w