Vanning found a more
than ordinary pleasure in his presence. By the time they were within a
day of Cape Town, Horace had more than half made up his mind. He had
gently opened the trenches with Mrs Stacer, who had met him almost
half-way, and had obtained permission to call upon them in London--at a
house north of Hyde Park, where they were living. At present they knew
so little of him and his people, that he felt it would be unfair to push
matters further. But he had mentioned Mrs Stacer's invitation to Rose
Vanning.

"I hope, Miss Vanning," he said, "you won't quite have forgotten me when
I come to see you--let me see--about next May. It's a very long way
off, isn't it? And people and things change so quickly in these times."
He looked a little anxiously at the girl as he spoke; what he saw
reassured him a good deal.

"If you haven't forgotten us, Mr Maybold," she said, a pretty flush
rising as she spoke, "I'm quite sure we shall remember and be glad to
see you. We've had such good times together, and I hope you'll come and
see us soon. We shall be home in April at latest, and we shall have, no
doubt, heaps of adventures to compare."

At Cape Town, Horace, after many inquiries, had half settled upon a
journey along the Orange River. He had more than one reason for this.
Perhaps Rose Vanning's influence had sharpened his moral sense; who
knows? At any rate, he had begun to think it was playing it rather low
down upon the Professor, to follow him up and poach his preserves. He
could do the Orange River this season, and wait another year for the
_Achraea Parchelli_; by that time the old gentleman would probably have
had his fill, and would not mind imparting the secret, if properly
approached. And so the Orange River was decided upon, and in three or
four days he was to start.

Upon the following evening, however, something happened to alter these
plans. Half an hour before dinner, as he was sitting on the pleasant
_stoep_ (veranda) of the International Hotel, enjoying a cigarette, a
man whose face he seemed to know came up to him and instantly claimed
acquaintance. "You remember me, surely, Maybold?" he said. "I was at
Marlborough with you--in the same form for three terms."

Of course Horace remembered him; and they sat at dinner together and had
a long yarn far into the night.

The upshot of this meeting was that nothing would satisfy John
Marley--"Johnny," he was always called--but Horace should