“But you have come up again now.  You will resume your friends at the point where you dived.”

“Not yet.  I am going away in a week’s time.”

“For long?”

“Eight months.”

“And far?”

“Very.”

“I am sorry,” said Stella.

It had been the intention of Hillyard to use his first months of real freedom in a great wandering amongst wide spaces.  The journey had been long since planned, even details of camp outfit and equipment and the calibre of rifles considered.

“I have been at my preparations for years,” he said.  “I lived in a cubbyhole in Westminster, writing and writing and writing, but when I thought of this journey to be, certain to be, the walls would dissolve, and I would walk in magical places under the sun.”

     “Now the New Year reviving old desires,
      The thoughtful soul to solitude retires”

Stella Croyle quoted the verses gaily, and Hillyard, lost in the anticipation of his journey, never noticed that the gaiety rang false.

“And where are you going?” she asked.

“To the Sudan.”

It seemed that Stella expected just that answer and no other.  She gazed into the fire without moving, seeking to piece together a picture in the coals of that unknown country which held all for which she yearned.

“I shall travel slowly up the White Nile to Renk,” Hillyard continued, blissfully.  He was delighted at the interest which Mrs. Croyle was taking in his itinerary.  She was clearly a superior person.  “From Renk, I shall cross to the Blue Nile at Rosaires, and travel eastward again to the River Dinder——­”

“You are most fortunate,” Stella interrupted wistfully.

“Yes, am I not?” cried Hillyard.  It looked as if nothing would break through his obtuseness.

“I should love to be going in your place.”

“You?”

Hillyard smiled.  She was for a mantelshelf in a boudoir, not for a camp.

“Yes—­I,” and her voice suddenly broke.

Hillyard sprang up from his chair, but Stella held up her hand to check him, and turned her face still further away.  Hillyard resumed his seat uncomfortably.

“You may meet your friend Harry Luttrell in the Sudan,” she explained.  “He is stationed somewhere in that country—­where exactly I would give a great deal to know.”

They sat without speaking for a little while, Stella once more turning to the fire.  Hillyard watching her wistful face and the droop of her shoulders understood at last the truth of Hardiman’s description.  The mask was lain aside.  Here indeed was a Lady of Sorrows.

Stella Croyle was silent until she was quite sure that she had once more the mastery of her voice.  It was important to her that her next words should not be forgotten.  But even so she did not dare to speak above a whisper.

“I want you to do me a favour.  If you should meet Harry, I should like him to have news of me.  I should like him also—­oh, not so often—­but just every now and then to write me a little line.”