ovember; anyway, in
plenty of time for Christmas."

"Why do you say 'we,' darling?"

"Why not say 'we'? We always do, don't we?"

"Yes, dear. For three happy years it has always been 'we,' in
everything. We have not been parted for longer than twelve hours at a
time, Ronnie. But I fear Central Africa cannot be 'we.' I do not feel
that I could go out there with you."

"Helen! Why not? I thought you would be keen on it. I thought you were
game to go anywhere!" Amazement and dismay were in his eyes.

She rose slowly, went over to the mantel-piece, moved some little
porcelain figures, then put them back again.

When at length she spoke, she steadied her voice with an effort.

"Ronnie dear, Central Africa is not a place for a woman."

"But, my dearest girl, a woman arrives there in my story! She crawls
into the long grass with the man she loves, and disappears. Our
missionary's bride did it. Where a woman could not go, _I_ must not go
for my local colour. Oh, I say, Helen! You won't fail me?"

He walked over to the window, and drummed again, with restless, nervous
fingers, upon the _In hoc vince_ pane.

She came behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder.

"Darling, it will break my heart if you think I am failing you. But,
while you have been talking, I have faced the matter out, and--I must
tell you at once--I cannot feel it either right or possible to go. I
could not be away just now, for seven months. This place must be looked
after. Think of the little church we are building in the village; the
farms changing tenants this summer; the hundred and one things I, and I
only, must settle and arrange. You never see the bailiff; you hardly
know the tenants; you do not oversee the workpeople. So you can scarcely
judge, dear Ronnie, how important is my presence here; how almost
impossible it would be for me suddenly to go completely out of reach. My
darling--if you keep to it, if you really intend to go, we must face the
fact that it will mean, for us, a long parting."

The tension of suspense held the stillness of the room.

Then: "It is my profession," said Ronald West, huskily. "It is my
career."

She moved round and faced him. They stood looking at one another,
dumbly.

She knew all that was in his mind, and most that was in his heart.

He knew nothing of that which filled her mind at the moment, and only
partly realised the great, unselfish love for him which filled her
heart.

He was completely under