“It’s more terrible than it looks, even now.  It’s a black day for England.  She doesn’t know yet how black it is.  I see it, though; I see it.  It’s as plain as an open book.  Well, there’s work to do, and I must be about it.  I’m off to the Colonial Office.  No time to lose.  It’s a job that has no eight-hours shift.”

Now the real man was alive.  He was transformed.  The face was set and quiet.  He looked concentrated will and power as he stood with his hands clasped behind him, his shoulders thrown back, his eyes alight with fire and determination.  To herself Jasmine seemed to be moving in the centre of great events, having her fingers upon the levers which work behind the scenes of the world’s vast schemes, standing by the secret machinery of government.

“How I wish I could help you,” she said, softly, coming nearer to him, a warm light in her liquid blue eyes, her exquisite face flushing with excitement, her hands clasped in front of her.

As Byng looked at her, it seemed to him that sweet honesty and high-heartedness had never had so fine a setting; that never had there been in the world such an epitome of talent, beauty and sincerity.  He had suddenly capitulated, he who had ridden unscathed so long.  If he had dared he would have taken her in his arms there and then; but he had known her only for a day.  He had been always told that a woman must be wooed and won, and to woo took time.  It was not a task he understood, but suddenly it came to him that he was prepared to do it; that he must be patient and watch and serve, and, as he used to do, perhaps, be elate in the morning and depressed at night, till the day of triumph came and his luck was made manifest.

“But you can help me, yes, you can help me as no one else can,” he said almost hoarsely, and his hands moved a little towards her.

“You must show me how,” she said, scarce above a whisper, and she drew back slightly, for this look in his eyes told its own story.

“When may I come again?” he asked.

“I want so much to hear everything about South Africa.  Won’t you come to-morrow at six?” she asked.

“Certainly, to-morrow at six,” he answered, eagerly, “and thank you.”

His honest look of admiration enveloped her as her hand was again lost in his strong, generous palm, and lay there for a moment thrilling him....  He turned at the door and looked back, and the smile she gave seemed the most delightful thing he had ever seen.

“She is a flower, a jasmine-flower,” he said, happily, as he made his way into the street.

When he had gone she fled to her bedroom.  Standing before the mirror, she looked at herself long, laughing feverishly.  Then suddenly she turned and threw herself upon the bed, bursting into a passion of tears.  Sobs shook her.

“Oh, Ian,” she said, raisig her head at last, “oh, Ian, Ian, I hate myself!”

Down in the library her stepmother was saying to her father, “You are right, Jasmine will marry the nabob.”