“Soon the Baas, madame,” he said as he placed a chair for her, and with the gliding footstep of a native left the room.

“Sunny creature!” she remarked aloud, with a little laugh, and looked round.  Instantly her face lighted with interest.  Here was nothing of that admired disorder, that medley of incongruous things which marked the room she had just left; but perfect order, precision, and balance of arrangement, the most peaceful equipoise.  There was a great carved oak-table near to sun-lit windows, and on it were little regiments of things, carefully arranged—­baskets with papers in elastic bands; classified and inscribed reference-books, scales, clips, pencils; and in one clear space, with a bunch of violets before it, the photograph of a woman in a splendid silver frame—­a woman of seventy or so, obviously Rudyard Byng’s mother.

Al’mah’s eyes softened.  Here was insight into a nature of which the world knew so little.  She looked further.  Everywhere were signs of disciplined hours and careful hands—­cabinets with initialed drawers, shelves filled with books.  There is no more impressive and revealing moment with man or woman than when you stand in a room empty of their actual presence, but having, in every inch of it, the pervasive influences of the absent personality.  A strange, almost solemn quietness stole over Al’mah’s senses.  She had been admitted to the inner court, not of the man’s house, but of his life.  Her eyes travelled on with the gratified reflection that she had been admitted here.  Above the books were rows of sketches—­rows of sketches!

Suddenly, as her eyes rested on them, she turned pale and got to her feet.  They were all sketches of the veld, high and low; of natives; of bits of Dutch architecture; of the stoep with its Boer farmer and his vrouw; of a kopje with a dozen horses or a herd of cattle grazing; of a spruit, or a Kaffir’s kraal; of oxen leaning against the disselboom of a cape-wagon; of a herd of steinboks, or a little colony of meerkats in the karoo.

Her hand went to her heart with a gesture of pain, and a little cry of misery escaped her lips.

Now there was a quick footstep, and Byng entered with a cordial smile and an outstretched hand.

“Well, this is a friendly way to begin the New Year,” he said, cheerily, taking her hand.  “You certainly are none the worse for our little unrehearsed drama the other night.  I see by the papers that you have been repeating your triumph.  Please sit down.  Do you mind my having a little toast while we talk?  I always have my petit dejeuner here; and I’m late this morning.”

“You look very tired,” she said as she sat down.

Krool here entered with a tray, placing it on a small table by the big desk.  He was about to pour out the tea, but Byng waved him away.

“Send this note at once by hand,” he said, handing him an envelope.  It was addressed to Jasmine Grenfel.