Because　of　the　force　of　the　physical　impression　he　had　received
  from　her　personality　（and　such　impressions　are　the　real　origins　of
  the　deepest　movements　of　our　soul）　this　conception　of　her　was　even
  inconceivable。　　But　no　Prince　Charming　has　ever　lived　out　of　a
  fairy　tale。　　He　doesn't　walk　the　worlds　of　Fashion　and　Finance　…
  and　with　a　stumbling　gait　at　that。　　Generosity。　　Yes。　　It　was　her
  generosity。　　But　this　generosity　was　altogether　regal　in　its
  splendour；　almost　absurd　in　its　lavishness　…　or；　perhaps；　divine。
  In　the　evening；　on　board　his　schooner；　sitting　on　the　rail；　his
  arms　folded　on　his　breast　and　his　eyes　fixed　on　the　deck；　he　let
  the　darkness　catch　him　unawares　in　the　midst　of　a　meditation　on　the
  mechanism　of　sentiment　and　the　springs　of　passion。　　And　all　the
  time　he　had　an　abiding　consciousness　of　her　bodily　presence。　　The
  effect　on　his　senses　had　been　so　penetrating　that　in　the　middle　of
  the　night；　rousing　up　suddenly；　wide…eyed　in　the　darkness　of　his
  cabin；　he　did　not　create　a　faint　mental　vision　of　her　person　for
  himself；　but；　more　intimately　affected；　he　scented　distinctly　the
  faint　perfume　she　used；　and　could　almost　have　sworn　that　he　had
  been　awakened　by　the　soft　rustle　of　her　dress。　　He　even　sat　up
  listening　in　the　dark　for　a　time；　then　sighed　and　lay　down　again；
  not　agitated　but；　on　the　contrary；　oppressed　by　the　sensation　of
  something　that　had　happened　to　him　and　could　not　be　undone。
  CHAPTER　III
  In　the　afternoon　he　lounged　into　the　editorial　office；　carrying
  with　affected　nonchalance　that　weight　of　the　irremediable　he　had
  felt　laid　on　him　suddenly　in　the　small　hours　of　the　night　…　that
  consciousness　of　something　that　could　no　longer　be　helped。　　His
  patronising　friend　informed　him　at　once　that　he　had　made　the
  acquaintance　of　the　Moorsom　party　last　night。　　At　the　Dunsters；　of
  course。　　Dinner。
  〃Very　quiet。　　Nobody　there。　　It　was　much　better　for　the　business。
  I　say　。　。　。〃
  Renouard；　his　hand　grasping　the　back　of　a　chair；　stared　down　at　him
  dumbly。
  〃Phew！　　That's　a　stunning　girl。　。　。　Why　do　you　want　to　sit　on　that
  chair？　　It's　uncomfortable！〃
  〃I　wasn't　going　to　sit　on　it。〃　　Renouard　walked　slowly　to　the
  window；　glad　to　find　in　himself　enough　self…control　to　let　go　the
  chair　instead　of　raising　it　on　high　and　bringing　it　down　on　the
  Editor's　head。
  〃Willie　kept　on　gazing　at　her　with　tears　in　his　boiled　eyes。　　You
  should　have　seen　him　bending　sentimentally　over　her　at　dinner。〃
  〃Don't；〃　said　Renouard　in　such　an　anguished　tone　that　the　Editor
  turned　right　round　to　look　at　his　back。
  〃You　push　your　dislike　of　young　Dunster　too　far。　　It's　positively
  morbid；〃　he　disapproved　mildly。　　〃We　can't　be　all　beautiful　after
  thirty。　。　。　。　I　talked　a　little；　about　you　mostly；　to　the
  professor。　　He　appeared　to　be　interested　in　the　silk　plant　…　if
  only　as　a　change　from　the　great　subject。　　Miss　Moorsom　didn't　seem
  to　mind　when　I　confessed　to　her　that　I　had　taken　you　into　the
  confidence　of　the　thing。　　Our　Willie　approved　too。　　Old　Dunster
  with　his　white　beard　seemed　to　give　me　his　blessing。　　All　those
  people　have　a　great　opinion　of　you；　simply　because　I　told　them　that
  you've　led　every　sort　of　life　one　can　think　of　before　you　got
  struck　on　exploration。　　They　want　you　to　make　suggestions。　　What　do
  you　think　'Master　Arthur'　is　likely　to　have　taken　to？〃
  〃Something　easy；〃　muttered　Renouard　without　unclenching　his　teeth。
  〃Hunting　man。　　Athlete。　　Don't　be　hard　on　the　chap。　　He　may　be
  riding　boundaries；　or　droving　cattle；　or　humping　his　swag　about　the
  back…blocks　away　to　the　devil　…　somewhere。　　He　may　be　even
  prospecting　at　the　back　of　beyond　…　this　very　moment。〃
  〃Or　lying　dead　drunk　in　a　roadside　pub。　　It's　late　enough　in　the
  day　for　that。〃
  The　Editor　looked　up　instinctively。　　The　clock　was　pointing　at　a
  quarter　to　five。　　〃Yes；　it　is；〃　he　admitted。　　〃But　it　needn't　be。
  And　he　may　have　lit　out　into　the　Western　Pacific　all　of　a　sudden　…
  say　in　a　trading　schooner。　　Though　I　really　don't　see　in　what
  capacity。　　Still　。　。　。　〃
  〃Or　he　may　be　passing　at　this　very　moment　under　this　very　window。〃
  〃Not　he　。　。　。　and　I　wish　you　would　get　away　from　it　to　where　one
  can　see　your　face。　　I　hate　talking　to　a　man's　back。　　You　stand
  there　like　a　hermit　on　a　sea…shore　growling　to　yourself。　　I　tell
  you　what　it　is；　Geoffrey；　you　don't　like　mankind。〃
  〃I　don't　make　my　living　by　talking　about　mankind's　affairs；〃
  Renouard　defended　himself。　　But　he　came　away　obediently　and　sat
  down　in　the　armchair。　　〃How　can　you　be　so　certain　that　your　man
  isn't　down　there　in　the　street？〃　he　asked。　　〃It's　neither　more　nor
  less　probable　than　every　single　one　of　your　other　suppositions。〃
  Placated　by　Renouard's　docility　the　Editor　gazed　at　him　for　a
  while。　　〃Aha！　　I'll　tell　you　how。　　Learn　then　that　we　have　begun
  the　campaign。　　We　have　telegraphed　his　description　to　the　police　of
  every　township　up　and　down　the　land。　　And　what's　more　we've
  ascertained　definitely　that　he　hasn't　been　in　this　town　for　the
  last　three　months　at　least。　　How　much　longer　he's　been　away　we
  can't　tell。〃
  〃That's　very　curious。〃
  〃It's　very　simple。　　Miss　Moorsom　wrote　to　him；　to　the　post　office
  here　directly　she　returned　to　London　after　her　excursion　into　the
  country　to　see　the　old　butler。　　Well　…　her　letter　is　still　lying
  there。　　It　has　not　been　called　for。　　Ergo；　this　town　is　not　his
  usual　abode。　　Personally；　I　never　thought　it　was。　　But　he　cannot
  fail　to　turn　up　some　time　or　other。　　Our　main　hope　lies　just　in　the
  certitude　that　he　must　come　to　town　sooner　or　later。　　Remember　he
  doesn't　know　that　the　butler　is　dead；　and　he　will　want　to　inquire
  for　a　letter。　　Well；　he'll　find　a　note　from　Miss　Moorsom。〃
  Renouard；　silent；　thought　that　it　was　likely　enough。　　His　profound
  distaste　for　this　conversation　was　betrayed　by　an　air　of　weariness
  darkening　his　energetic　sun…tanned　features；　and　by　the　augmented
  dreaminess　of　his　eyes。　　The　Editor　noted　it　as　a　further　proof　of
  that　immoral　detachment　from　mankind；　of　that　callousness　of
  sentiment　fostered　by　the　unhealthy　conditions　of　solitude　…
  according　to　his　own　favourite　theory。　　Aloud　he　observed　that　as
  long　as　a　man　had　not　given　up　correspondence　he　could　not　be
  looked　upon　as　lost。　　Fugitive　criminals　had　been　tracked　in　that
  way　by　justice；　he　reminded　his　friend；　then　suddenly　changed　the
  bearing　of　the　subject　somewhat　by　asking　if　Renouard　had　heard
  from　his　people　lately；　and　if　every　member　of　his　large　tribe　was
  well　and　happy。
  〃Yes；　thanks。〃
  The　tone　was　curt；　as　if　repelling　a　liberty。　　Renouard　did　not
  like　being　asked　about　his　people；　for　whom　he　had　a　profound　and
  remorseful　affection。　　He　had　not　seen　a　single　human　being　to　whom
  he　was　related；　for　many　years；　and　he　was　extremely　different　from
  them　all。
  On　the　very　morning　of　his　arrival　from　his　island　he　had　gone　to　a
  set　of　pigeon…holes　in　Willie　Dunster's　outer　office　and　had　taken
  out　from　a　compartment　labelled　〃Malata〃　a　very　small　accumulation
  of　envelopes；　a　few　addressed　to　himself；　and　one　addressed　to　his
  assistant；　all　to　the　care　of　the　firm；　W。　Dunster　and　Co。　　As
  opportunity　offered；　the　firm　used　to　send　them　on　to　Malata　either
  by　a　man…of…war　schooner　going　on　a　cruise；　or　by　some　trading
  craft　proceeding　that　way。　　But　for　the　last　four　months　there　had
  been　no　opportunity。
  〃You　going　to　stay　here　some　time？〃　asked　the　Editor；　after　a
  longish　silence。
  Renouard；　perfunctorily；　did　see　no　reason　why　he　should　make　a
  long　stay。
  〃For　health；　for　your　mental　health；　my　boy；〃　rejoined　the
  newspaper　man。　　〃To　get　used　to　human　faces　so　that　they　don't　hit
  you　in　the　eye　so　hard　when　you　walk　about　the　streets。　　To　get
  friendly　with　your　kind。　　I　suppose　that　assistant　of　yours　can　be
  trusted　to　look　after　things？〃
  〃There's　the　half…caste　too。　　The　Portuguese。　　He　knows　what's　to
  be　done。〃
  〃Aha！〃　　The　Editor　looked　sharply　at　his　friend。　　〃What's　his
  name？〃
  〃Who's　name？〃
  〃The　assistant's　you　picked　up　on　the　sly　behind　my　back。〃
  Renouard　made　a　slight　movement　of　impatience。
  〃I　met　him　unexpectedly　one　evening。　　I　thought　he　would　do　as　well
  as　another。　　He　had　come　from　up　country　and　didn't　seem　happy　in　a
  town。　　He　told　me　his　name　was　Walter。　　I　did　not　ask　him　for
  proofs；　you　know。〃
  〃I　don't　think　you　get　on　very　well　with　him。〃
  〃Why？　　What　makes　you　think　so。〃
  〃I　don't　know。　　Something　reluctant　in　your　manner　when　he's　in
  question。〃