Jocelyn Gordon laughed softly, without attempting to meet his lighter vein.
“Do you know,” she said, after a little silence, “that I was actually thinking of warning you against Mr. Durnovo? Now I stand aghast at my own presumption.”
“It was kind of you to give the matter any thought whatever.”
He rose and threw away the end of his cigar. Joseph was already before the door, leading the horse which Maurice Gordon had placed at his visitor's disposal.
“I will lay the warning to heart,” he said, standing in front of Jocelyn and looking down at her as she lay back in the deep basket-chair. She was simply dressed in white—as was her wont, for it must be remembered that they were beneath the Equator—a fair English maiden, whose thoughts were hidden behind a certain gracious, impenetrable reserve. “I will lay it to heart, although you have not uttered it. But I have always known with what sort of man I was dealing. We serve each other's purpose, that is all; and he knows that as well as I do.”
“I am glad Mr. Oscard is going with you,” she answered guardedly.
He waited a moment. It seemed as if she had not done speaking—as if there was another thought near the surface. But she did not give voice to it, and he turned away. The sound of the horse's feet on the gravel did not arouse her from the reverie into which she had fallen; and long after it had died away, leaving only the hum of insect life and the distant ceaseless song of the surf, Jocelyn Gordon sat apparently watching the dancing shadows on the floor as the creepers waved in the breeze.
CHAPTER XII. A MEETING
No one can be more wise than destiny.