But was it also that, far beneath her criticism of Jasmine, which was, after all, so little in comparison with the new-found affection she really had for her, there lay a kinship, a sympathy, a soul’s rapprochement with Rudyard, which might, in happier circumstances, have become a mating such as the world knew in its youth?  Was that also in part the cause of her anxiety for Rudyard, and of her sharp disapproval of Jasmine?  Did she want to see Rudyard happy, no matter at what cost to Jasmine?  Was it the everlasting feminine in her which would make a woman sacrifice herself for a man, if need be, in order that he might be happy?  Was it the ancient tyrannical soul in her which would make a thousand women sacrifice themselves for the man she herself set above all others?

But she was of those who do not know what they are, or what they think and feel, till some explosion forces open the doors of their souls and they look upon a new life over a heap of ruins.

She sat in the gathering dusk, waiting, while hope slowly waned.  Rudyard also, on the veranda, paced weakly, almost stumblingly, up and down, his face also turning towards the Stay Awhile Hospital.  At length, with a heavy sigh, he entered the house and sat down in a great arm-chair, from which old Brinkwort the Boer had laid down the law for his people.

Where was Jasmine?  Why did she not hasten to Brinkwort’s Farm?

A Staff Officer from the General Commanding had called to congratulate Jasmine on her recovery, and to give fresh instructions which would link her work at Durban effectively with the army as it now moved on to the relief of the town beyond the hills.  Al’mah’s note had arrived while the officer was with Jasmine, and it was held back until he left.  It was then forgotten by the attendant on duty, and it lay for three hours undelivered.  Then when it was given to her, no mention was made of the delay.

When the Staff Officer left her, he had said to himself that hers was one of the most alluring and fascinating faces he had ever seen; and he, like Stafford, though in another sphere—­that of the Secret Intelligence Department—­had travelled far and wide in the world.  Perfectly beautiful he did not call her, though her face was as near that rarity as any he had known.  He would only have called a woman beautiful who was tall, and she was almost petite; but that was because he himself was over-tall, and her smallness seemed to be properly classed with those who were pretty, not the handsome or the beautiful.  But there was something in her face that haunted him—­a wistful, appealing delicacy, which yet was associated with an instant readiness of intellect, with a perspicuous judgment and a gift of organization.  And she had eyes of blue which were “meant to drown those who hadn’t life-belts,” as he said.

In one way or another he put all this to his fellow officers, and said that the existence of two such patriots as Byng and Jasmine in one family was unusual.