POPPY and Bramham were alone together as they had been many times before. The verandah being the coolest place, they were sitting there, on a low basket-lounge affair, in darkness, except for the streaks and squares of light that stretched through the open windows and door of the sitting-room, falling across the verandah and losing themselves in the massed greenery of the garden. The little red glow at the end of Bramham's cigar gave enough light at times for him to observe that upon the face of his companion the strained, tortured look which often haunted it, was getting full play under cover of the dimness. She laughed lightly, however, at his sallies as they talked—the disjointed intermittent conversation of people who are far from the subject under discussion.

By reason of the shortness of the lounge they were seated rather close together; so close, that when Bramham's arm, which was lying along the back of the sofa, slipped down, it, as a matter of course, touched her waist. Her face was averted, so that even if it had been light enough he could not see the troubled look that flashed across it. She sat perfectly still, however, and said nothing. It might be an accident—she would wait and see. But presently she felt personality and magnetism in the touch of that firm hand, lightly as it rested on her; and she knew that this was not an accident.

"Don't do that," she said; her manner was careless, but there was a timbre in her voice that chilled. Bramham instantly removed his hand.

"Why not?" he asked discontentedly.

"Because I don't care about it," she said, her tone pleasant and friendly again.

Bramham smoked a while. He was not at all offended, but he chose to pretend to be. His experience of women presently prompted him to make a remark which he had discovered they regarded in the nature of a taunt.

"I'm afraid you are very cold-blooded."

Poppy merely laughed. Bramham, piqued that his shot had missed fire, and, having no other ready at the moment, repeated it with as much disagreeableness as he could muster—which was not any very great amount.

"It must be unpleasant to be so cold."

"Oh, not in this climate," said she tranquilly; adding, with a touch of malice: "and there are always plenty of fires where one can warm oneself, quelquefois."

"I think that what you need is a bonfire." Bramham was feeling distinctly cross, but Poppy laughed so merrily at this mot that his good-humour was restored. He began to smoke again, sitting sideways now, because he was able to see her face better, and there appeared to be no object in sitting cheek by jowl. Later, he said:

"I don't see why you should despise my nice bright flame."

Poppy meditated swiftly. She liked Bramham well, and she desired to keep him friendly; only, there was a thing he had to understand clearly. She was learning to make use of any twist of the tongue in difficult situations, but she knew that she was dealing with man of a good type and it seemed indicated that a little of the truth would not be out of place at this juncture—a little only! the real, bitter, wonderful truth she would share with no one in the world!

"I am far from despising it, Mr. Bramham," she said at last, very gently. "But I happen to want you for a friend, not an enemy."

Bramham did not see his way quite clear through this. However, he declared stoutly that he had never been a woman's enemy yet.

"Then you must often have been your own," she retorted, with a little glint of bitter wisdom. Thereafter, the conversation flagged again. Bramham had missed his cue and his broad shoulders took on a somewhat sullen expression. Poppy had the hopeless feeling that she had lost a lover without finding a friend, and the thought filled her with sadness. Only God and she knew how much she needed a friend; and she was sure she could find no stronger, firmer rock to her back than this big, kind man, if she could only get him away from these shoals of emotion on to the firm ground of friendship.

But Bramham was sighing sulkily, and flipping with his forefinger at the end of his cigar, as though he had no further use for it. Obviously, he was thinking of making a chilly departure. Suddenly she put out her hand and touched his, resting on his knee.

"You are quite right, I am cold," she said softly; "starving with cold; and you can never know how charming and attractive your fire looks to me, but—after all, the best seat is already taken isn't it?"

Bramham stared hard at her, swallowing something. This was the first time his wife had been mentioned between them. She did not falter.

"Don't you think I am nice enough to have a fireside of my very own?" She spoke with the soft bird note in her throat, and her smile was a wistful thing to see.

Bramham's other firm hand came down on hers, and gave it a great grip.

"By Jove! I do. And I hope you'll get the best going."

A wave of grateful warmth rushed over the girl at his words. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you; thank you!" she cried brokenly; and added, on a swift impulse: "The fire I want seems to me the most wonderful in the world—and if I can't be there, I'll never sit by any other."

She did not attempt to stanch her tears, but sat looking at him with a smiling mouth, while the heavy drops fell down her cheeks. Bramham thought that, because of the smile, he had never seen any woman look so tragic in his life.

"Don't cry; don't cry, dear!" he said distressfully. "I can't bear to see a woman cry. Do you love someone, Rosalind?" he asked, using her name shyly.

"Yes, Charlie," she said simply; "I do. But there is a knife in my heart." She turned from him now, and looked away, that he might not see the despair and humiliation in her face.

"I will be your friend, Rosalind. Trust me. I can't understand at all. You are altogether a mystery to me; I can't understand, for one thing, how a girl like you comes to be living with Sophie Cornell——"

"I came here quite by accident," she interrupted him. "I have always meant to tell you, though I know that for some reason Sophie doesn't want you to know. I walked into the garden one day, and saw Sophie using a typewriter, and I came in and asked her to take me for an assistant."

"What! But weren't you a governess to some people in Kimberley, and an old friend of Sophie's in Johannesburg?"

"No, I've never been a governess, and I never saw Sophie until I walked in here some three months ago. The girl you take me for never came at all, and Sophie was glad to have me take her place, I suppose. But, indeed, it was good of her to take me in, and I am not ungrateful. I will pay her back some day, for she is of the kind money will repay for anything." She added this rather bitterly, for, indeed, Sophie never ceased to make her feel her obligations, in spite of daily slavery on the typewriter.

"Well, of all the—!" Bramham began. Later, he allowed himself to remark:

"She certainly is a bird of Paradise!" and that was his eulogy on Sophie Cornell.

"But how comes it that a girl like you is—excuse me—kicking about the world, at a loose end?—How can any fellow that has your love let you suffer!—The whole thing is incomprehensible! But whatever you say stands. You needn't say anything at all if you don't want to——"

"I can't tell you anything," she said brokenly. "If I could tell anyone, it would be you—but I can't. Only—I want a friend, Charlie—I want help."

"I'll do anything in the world for you—all you've got to say is 'Knife.'"

"I want to get away from Africa to England, and I haven't a penny in the world, nor any possessions except the things I am wearing now."

"Oh, that's simple!" said Bramham easily. "But have you any friends to go to in England?"

"I have no friends anywhere—except you.

"But I don't think my end is yet. I must go away from Africa, when I love it most—as you did, Charlie. There are things to do and things to go through, and I must go and suffer in London as you did. But I mean to win through and come back and get my own, like you did, too."

She jumped up and stood in the light of the window, and Bramham could see that her eyes were shining and her cheeks flushed. She looked like a beautiful, boastful boy, standing there, flinging out a mocking, derisive hand at Fate.

"Life has had her way with me too long, Charlie. Ever since I was a child she has done nothing but cheat me and smite me on the mouth, and beat me to the earth.... But I am up again, and I will walk over her yet!... Love has found me, only to mock me and give me false coin and pass me by on the other side; but I will come back and find Love, and it will be my turn to triumph. Look at me!" she cried, not beseechingly, but gaily, bragfully. "There is no white in my hair, nor any lines on my face, nor scars ... where they can be seen. I have youth, courage, a little beauty, something of wit—and I can write, Charlie. Don't you think that I should be able to wrest something for myself from the claws of that brute Life—a little Fame, a little Love——?"

"I should just say I do," said Bramham heartily. "You're true-blue all through, without a streak of yellow in the whole of your composition."

PART III