IT was, indeed, Carson whom Portal had brought home with him. They had encountered in West Street, and Bill had insisted on bringing him back just as he was in the inevitable grey lounge suit, assuring him that there would be no one to find fault with his appearance but Mrs. Portal, who was notoriously forgiving.

So Carson came, and had no faintest inkling that Poppy was there too. Being an old intimÉ of the family, he knew his way about the house and after leaving Portal's dressing-room, he sought the nursery, was admitted by Cinthie's nurse, and stayed talking and romping with the child long after the second bell had sounded and dinner been announced, with the result that Portal insisted on taking Poppy into dinner, while Clem sought the recalcitrant in the nursery. Later, they came laughing to the dining-room, and for the first time Carson knew of Poppy's presence. She was sitting facing the door, and a big silver candlestick, with wide branching antlers, framed her in a silver frame. With her mysterious, tendrilly hair, her subtle scarlet mouth and Celtic cheek-bones, she had the alluring appearance of a Beardsley-drawing without any of its bloodlessness, for her gown was as scarlet as the poppies of the field, and she glowed with inward fires at seeing Carson. The deep, sweet glance she gave him as they greeted made him glow too, with gladness of living, and some other radiant reason that for the moment was not clear to him. He only knew that weariness was gone from his veins and that the splendour of life had come back at last with the rush and swell of full-tide.

After dinner they all went into the verandah and the men smoked there. Clem never smoked, but she liked the smell of cigars. Poppy had long broken herself of the cigarette habit. Later, Portal said he must go and write two important letters to catch the mail—after that they would have a game of Bridge if anyone liked. Clem said she would go and play to the others her setting to "In Exile," of which she was very proud. She sang it softly over and over to them for a while. Afterwards she wandered through Chopin's "Prelude" into Schubert's gentle "Andante." Then unaccountably she began to fling out into the night the great solemn chords of a Funeral March. It was a wonderful thing, full of the dignity of sorrow, underlaid by thin wailings that spoke of little memories of all the past sweetnesses of the dead. There was a place in it that made Poppy think her dead child's arms were round her neck, and another where Carson thought of Alan Wilson and his thirty-one brave companions lying under the stars up in lonely Zimbabwe. At another time, he remembered a man dear to him, killed at Gwelo in the second native rising; he seemed to see the fellow with his hands in his pockets whistling to his dogs in a peculiar way he had.

Through all the playing Poppy and he sat in the verandah, side by side, in two low canvas chairs. A fold of her gown lay across his feet. They were absolutely silent and they did not look at each other. Carson was staring straight before him, but without a turn of his head or flicker of his eyelids he was conscious of every tiniest detail of the woman by his side. He saw the gracious line of her cheek and throat and thigh and foot; but, more than that, he believed he saw the spirit of her too, gentle and sad, but brave and desirable to him beyond the soul of any woman—and his. She was his. He was certain of that now. He had taken the knowledge from her eyes when they met that night; and yet it seemed old knowledge to him, something he had known since the beginning of time.

Her hand lay within reach of his, but he did not touch it. Only too conscious of the mysterious magnetism of the flesh, he strove with all the fine instincts and high aspirations his spirit had ever given birth to and his body honoured, to free himself from the shackles of the flesh and give to this woman whom he loved and blessed a greater salute than the mere touching of hands.

As for her—her eyes were closed. She, too, was reaching out with spirit-hands to him. Inasmuch as human souls which are aloof and lonely things can communicate—theirs met and hailed each other as mate until the end of time.

Suddenly Clem freed them of sorrow. She began to play something that was like an old piece of brocade all flowered over quaintly with tiny leaves, true lovers' knots, and little pink-and-blue rose-buds. Presently the brocade became a stately dress, worn with powder and patches and high scarlet-heeled shoes.... Portal, having finished his mail, came back to the verandah, and Clem closed the piano then and came out too. They sat and talked, and no one again suggested cards.

The night was fresh and sweet after the rain, and the sky above alive with newly-washed stars. Far away, Durban flashed and sparkled, and just above the bay there was a great splash of vermilion against the darkness of the bluff—sometimes it showed streaks of carmine in it. They discussed the phenomenon, and eventually concluded that a boat out on the water was afire. Whatever the cause, it certainly gave the finishing touch to the picturesque beauty of the night.

A little after eleven Carson left. He shook hands with everyone at parting, and for a brief instant he and Poppy drank another deep draught of joy from each other's eyes.

No sooner had he gone than Clem said:

"Poppy, you are to go to bed instantly, and stay there until I give you leave to get up. You look like a spectre."

Poppy took her hand and kissed it. She was trembling with happiness, but she dared not speak of it. Clem put an arm round her.

"I must come and see if your room is all right."

"Yes, but who are these midnight vigilantes in the garden?" exclaimed Portal. "I believe I hear Bramham!"

Bramham, indeed, it was who came into the light with a crumpled and weeping woman clinging to his arm.

"What the——?" softly demanded Portal of Heaven, and Clem stared. Poppy swiftly recognised Miss Allendner.

"What is it?" she cried, stepping forward.

Miss Allendner only wept more violently.

"This poor lady has been greatly upset," said Bramham, and placed her in a chair. Then he spoke with the brevity of a good man with a bad tale:

"Miss Chard's house has been burnt to the ground; fortunately no one is hurt, but everything is destroyed."

"Burnt! burnt?... everything? My work ... my freedom—" cried Poppy wildly with clasped hands.

"Everything! Nothing left but a few bricks and some melted iron. I wonder you didn't see the flare-up—it lighted the whole bay. The thing was discovered too late to do anything but get Miss Allendner out." His firm brevity left him. "Oh, Lord, I am sorry!" He stared dismally.

"Oh, Poppy!" cried Clem, with pitiful voice, and they all drew round the pale girl. She did not speak for a time—just stood there in the light streaming from the drawing-room windows, white and still; and presently some tears fell down her face. Then she said:

"Poor Miss Allendner. Shall we put her to bed, in my bedroom, Clem? She is worn out!"

The women went away. At the gate Bramham said to Portal:

"And there is worse to come.... That crazy Allendner turkey was shrieking round the fire like a lunatic ... imploring the crowd to save the writings of Eve Destiny, the South African writer—everybody knows who she is now ... the place is humming like a beehive with the news ... and it will be in all the news-rags in the morning.... She'll be more broken up over that than anything ... for reasons of her own she didn't want it known.... Oh, it's a hell of a country, Portal."

This thing was news also to Portal. Mrs Portal being that lovely thing, a close woman, he knew nothing of Poppy's identity with Eve Destiny.