“Ah, well!” he sighed lugubriously, “after all, life is a burden, and one might as well die in the French Congo—a particularly lonely place to die in, I admit—as anywhere else. Good-by, Jimmy.” He held out his hand mournfully.
“Don’t be a goat!” entreated Jimmy. “I will let you know from time to time how I am; you can send your letters via Sierra Leone.”
“The White Man’s Grave!” murmured Angel audibly.
“And I’ll let you know in plenty of time when I return.”
“When!” said Angel significantly. He shook hands limply, and with the air of a man taking an eternal farewell. Then he left the room, and they could hear the eerie whine of his patent siren growing fainter and fainter.
“Confound that chap!” said Jimmy. “With his glum face and extravagant gloom he——”
“Why did you not tell me you were going?” she asked him quietly. She stood with a neat foot on the fender and her head a little bent.
“I had come to tell you,” said Jimmy.
“Why are you going?”
Jimmy cleared his throat.