“Yes, sooner or later.  But where?  Perhaps you have lost a picture or two in your time, Mr. Quatermain, and are better able to answer the question than I am.”

There was silence for a few moments, for this talk of lost pictures brought back memories which choked me.

Then she began to speak again, low, quickly, and with suppressed passion, but acting wonderfully all the while.  Knowing that eyes were on her, her gestures and the expression of her face were such as might have been those of any young lady of fashion who was talking of everyday affairs, such as dancing, or flowers, or jewels.  She smiled and even laughed occasionally.  She played with the golden salt-cellar in front of her and, upsetting a little of the salt, threw it over her left shoulder, appearing to ask me if I were a victim of that ancient habit, and so on.

But all the while she was talking deeply of deep things, such as I should never have thought would pass her mind.  This was the substance of what she said, for I cannot set it all down verbatim; after so many years my memory fails me.

“I am not like other women.  Something moves me to tell you so, something very real and powerful which pushes me as a strong man might.  It is odd, because I have never spoken to anyone else like that, not to my mother for instance, or even to Lord Ragnall.  They would neither of them understand, although they would misunderstand differently.  My mother would think I ought to see a doctor—­and if you knew that doctor!  He,” and she nodded towards Lord Ragnall, “would think that my engagement had upset me, or that I had grown rather more religious than I ought to be at my age, and been reflecting too much—­well, on the end of all things.  From a child I have understood that I am a mystery set in the midst of many other mysteries.  It all came to me one night when I was about nine years old.  I seemed to see the past and the future, although I could grasp neither.  Such a long, long past and such an infinite future.  I don’t know what I saw, and still see sometimes.  It comes in a flash, and is in a flash forgotten.  My mind cannot hold it.  It is too big for my mind; you might as well try to pack Dr. Jeffreys there into this wineglass.  Only two facts remain written on my heart.  The first is that there is trouble ahead of me, curious and unusual trouble; and the second, that permanently, continually, I, or a part of me, have something to do with Africa, a country of which I know nothing except from a few very dull books.  Also, by the way—­this is a new thought—­that I have a great deal to do with you.  That is why I am so interested in Africa and you.  Tell me about Africa and yourself now, while we have the chance.”  And she ended rather abruptly, adding in a louder voice, “You have lived there all your life, have you not, Mr. Quatermain?”

“I rather think your mother would be right—­about the doctor, I mean,” I said.