Nothing could have been more agreeable than Warkworth at dinner.  Even the Duchess admitted as much.  He talked easily, but not too much, of the task before him; told amusing tales of his sporting experience of years back in the same regions which were now to be the scene of his mission; discussed the preparations he would have to make at Denga, the coast town, before starting on his five weeks’ journey to the interior; drew the native porter and the native soldier, not to their advantage, and let fall, by the way, not a few wise or vivacious remarks as to the races, resources, and future of this illimitable and mysterious Africa—­this cavern of the unknown, into which the waves of white invasion, one upon another, were now pressing fast and ceaselessly, towards what goal, only the gods knew.

A few other men were dining; among them two officers from the staff of the Commander-in-Chief.  Warkworth, much their junior, treated them with a skilful deference; but through the talk that prevailed his military competence and prestige appeared plainly enough, even to the women.  His good opinion of himself was indeed sufficiently evident; but there was no crude vainglory.  At any rate, it was a vainglory of youth, ability, and good looks, ratified by these budding honors thus fresh upon him, and no one took it amiss.

When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, Warkworth and Julie once more found themselves together, this time in the Duchess’s little sitting-room at the end of the long suite of rooms.

“When do you go?” she asked him, abruptly.

“Not for about a month.”  He mentioned the causes of delay.

“That will bring you very late—­into the worst of the heat?” Her voice had a note of anxiety.

“Oh, we shall all be seasoned men.  And after the first few days we shall get into the uplands.”

“What do your home people say?” she asked him, rather shyly.  She knew, in truth, little about them.

“My mother?  Oh, she will be greatly pleased.  I go down to the Isle of Wight for a day or two to see her to-morrow.  But now, dear lady, that is enough of my wretched self.  You—­do you stay on here with the Duchess?”

She told him of the house in Heribert Street.  He listened with attention.

“Nothing could be better.  You will have a most distinguished little setting of your own, and Lady Henry will repent at leisure.  You won’t be lonely?”

“Oh no!” But her smile was linked with a sigh.

He came nearer to her.

“You should never be lonely if I could help it,” he said, in a low voice.

“When people are nameless and kinless,” was her passionate reply, in the same undertone as his, “they must be lonely.”

He looked at her with eagerness.  She lay back in the firelight, her beautiful brow and eyes softly illuminated.  He felt within him a sudden snapping of restraints.  Why—­why refuse what was so clearly within his grasp?  Love has many manners—­many entrances—­and many exits.