us thought. She was accustomed to
think of herself as a very commonplace young woman, not at all the equal
of this very superior man, to whom everybody in Cairo paid a marked
deference. He understood Barbara as she did not at all understand
herself. He had looked upon her white soul and bowed his head in worship
of its purity, its nobility, its utter truthfulness. He knew the
qualities of a mind that had no just self-appreciation. He felt, rather
than knew, that no thought of his loving her--otherwise than as an elder
brother might love a little sister--had ever crossed her consciousness.
He felt that the abrupt suggestion of that thought would only shock and
distress her.

"I'll find a way of making others suggest it, after a while," he
resolved. "In the meanwhile----" He didn't finish the sentence, even in
his own mind. But what he did in that "meanwhile" was to see as much as
possible of Barbara, to talk with her impersonally, gently, and
interestingly, to win her perfect trust and confidence, and, so far as
possible, to make his presence a necessary thing to her. He paid her no
public attention of any kind. But he paid no public or private attention
to any other young woman. It was well understood that for a time he was
living at the mine and coming to Cairo only for brief visits of a
business character, at infrequent intervals. His neglect of society,
therefore, seemed in need of no explanation, while his unostentatious
intimacy with Barbara attracted no attention. The only person who ever
spoke to him about it was Mrs. Will Hallam.

"You are going to marry Barbara Verne, of course?" she half said, half
asked one day.

"If I can, yes," he answered.

"I'm very glad of that," and she said no more.

On his final return to Cairo, however, Duncan found himself expected in
what is called society. Society was destined to disappointment, for
Duncan went nowhere--except that he usually sat for some hours every
Sunday afternoon in the vine-clad porch of the house in which he took
his meals. Barbara's aunt often sat there with him. Barbara always did
so, in answer to what seemed to be his wish. He made no calls. He
declined all invitations to the little excursions on the river, which
constituted the chief social activities of the summer time. He gave it
out that he was too busily engaged with affairs to have time for
anything else, and that explanation seemed for a time to satisfy public
curiosity.

And that explanati