dear," she says, "and have a good
day."

She waves her hand as he trots down the hill, his slim form erect, his
eyes bright and lips parted.

"I hope you won't be dull, Eleanor," he cries with a gay laugh. "Keep
house till I return, and take care of yourself."

As he fades from sight she turns singing into the bungalow.

There are several duties to be attended to. Her pink muslin gown needs
rearranging, and the huge bunch of crimson flowers Quamina has gathered
her must be put in the drawing-room. They are bright, and will please
Carol's eye.

As she places them in tall, picturesque vases, Paulina's words return
with aggressive force.

The sort of woman who stays at home tending flowers! They take the
pleasure from her simple task. She leaves the fallen blossoms half on
a couch, half on the ground, turning from them disgusted.

Perhaps Paulina was right! Carol would find her far more of a
companion if she shouldered her gun and rode off with him to the
jungle; but she hates killing things.

The chase is brutal! Sport is revolting! Thus she consoles herself,
and sends Quamina for the muslin gown.

How tenderly Carol had kissed her when he said good-bye. How brilliant
he seemed that morning!

She laughs again at the thought of his wit. Her Carol was always
clever.

He has marked a passage of Spencer's in a novel Eleanor is reading; she
picks it up and comes across it.

It is like a rude shock. Why has he pencilled such disagreeable lines?

Full little knowest thou that hast not tried.
What hell it is in suing long to bide;
To loose good dayes that might be better spent,
To waste long nights in pensive discontent.

Perhaps it struck him as so strangely different to their ideal
existence.

The hours do not seem long, for a "light heart goes all the day," but
as afternoon wanes she is filled with expectant delight, awaiting
Carol's advent. He will be naturally tired, and she draws the couch
near the window, piles luxurious pillows upon it, and perches herself
at the end of it, placing in readiness a loose lounging coat of yellow
Tussore silk. Carol, it is a pretty name, she thinks, taking up his
portrait and pressing it to her lips. It is in the same attitude as
the one she destroyed in the railway train, upon her first meeting with
Elizabeth Kachin's mother.

The faint light slants across the verandah, and falls on the yellow
cushions placed for Quinton.

It creeps into the r