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A SLOVENLY description of Janice Harman would be that she was the product of her generation. She had inherited the eternal qualities of womanhood as she enjoyed a freedom of development which was unknown in the formal age when guardians were restrictive and gloomy figures looming behind the young and beautiful heiress.

Janice had attained independence almost unconsciously; had her own banking account when she was seventeen, and left behind the tangibilities of discipline when she passed from the tutelage of the venerable head mistress of her school.

A bachelor uncle was the only relative she had possessed. In a spasmodic and jolly way he was interested in his niece, made her a lavish allowance, sent her beautiful and useless presents at Christmas and on her birthday, which he invariably remembered a month after. When he was killed in a motor accident (the three chorus girls who were driving with him escaped with a shaking) she found herself a comparatively rich young woman.

He had appointed as trustee a friend whose sole claim to his confidence lay in the fact that he was the best judge of hunters in England, and was one of the few men who could drink half a dozen glasses of port blindfolded and unerringly distinguish the vintage of each.

Janice left school with an exalted code of values and certain ideals which she religiously maintained. She had in her bedroom a framed portrait of the Prince of Wales, and she took the Sacrament on Christmas mornings.

At eighteen all men were heroes or dreadful; at nineteen she recognised a middle class which were neither heroic nor unspeakable. At twenty the highlights had receded and some of the duller tones were taking shape and perspective.

Donald Bateman belonged to the old regime of idealism. In his handsome face and athletic figure she recaptured some of the enthusiasm of the class-room. He was Romance and Adventure, the living receptacle in which were stored all the desirable virtues of the perfect man. His modesty—he no more than inferred his excellent qualities—his robust personality, his good humour, his childish views about money, his naivete, were all adorable. He accepted her judgments and estimates of people and events, giving to her a sense of superiority which was very delightful.

In one respect he pleased her: he did not embarrass her more than once. He never forgot that their acquaintance was of the slightest, and the word "love" had never been uttered. The second time they had met he had kissed her, and she was ridiculously uncomfortable. He must have seen this, for he did not repeat the experiment. But they talked of marriage and their home and the wonders of South Africa; she could even discuss in a prim way the problem of children's education. A breezy figure of a man, delightfully boyish.

She was taking afternoon duty at the clinic and had been worrying about him all the morning—he had been a little depressed when she had seen him last.

"Did your money come?" she asked, with a smile.

He took out his pocket-book and drew forth two crisp notes. She saw they were each for a hundred pounds.

"It arrived this morning. I drew out these in case of emergency —I hate being without money when I'm in London. Angel, if the money hadn't turned up, I should have been borrowing from you this morning, and then what would you have thought of me?"

She smiled again. Men were so silly about money. Michael, for instance. She had wanted him to have a little car, and he had been almost churlish when she offered to help him.

He sat down and lit a cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling.

"Did you enjoy your dinner?"

She made a little face.

"Not very much."

"He's a reporter, isn't he? I know a reporter on the Cape Times —quite a good chap—"

"It wasn't Michael who made the dinner a failure," she intervened loyally. "It was a man who came into the club with a white mask."

"Oh!" He raised his eyebrows. "The Howdah Club—White Face? I've been reading about it in this morning's papers. I wish I'd been there. What is happening to the men in this country that they allow a fellow like that to get away with it? If I'd been within reach of him one of us would have been on the floor. The trouble with you people in England is that you're scared of firearms. I know from my own experience..."

He told a story of a prospector's camp in Rhodesia; it was a story which did not place him in an unfavourable light.

He sat facing the window, and during the narrative she had time to scrutinise him—not critically, but with indiscriminate approval. He was older than she had thought; forty, perhaps. There were little lines round his eyes, and harder ones near his mouth. That he had led a difficult and a dangerous life, she knew. One cannot starve and thirst in the desert of the Kalahari, or lie alone racked with fever on the banks of the Tuli River, or find oneself unarmed and deserted by carriers in the lion country west of Massikassi, and present an unlined and boyish face to the world. He still bore beneath his chin the long scar which a leopard's claw had left.

"Living in Africa nowadays is like living in Bond Street," he sighed. "All the old mystery has departed. I don't believe there's a lion left between Salisbury and Bulawayo. In the old days you used to find them lying in the middle of the road..."

She could listen to him for hours, but, as she explained, there was work to do.

"I'll come down and bring you home—where is it?" he asked.

She explained the exact location of Tidal Basin. "Dr. Marford —what sort of a man is he?"

"He's a darling," said Janice enthusiastically.

"We'll have him out at the Cape." He echoed her enthusiasm. "It's very easy. There's an extraordinary amount of work to be done, especially with the coloured children. If I can buy that farm next to mine, we might turn the farm building into a sort of convalescent home. It's one of those big, rambling Dutch houses and, as I've rather a nice house of my own, I shouldn't have use for the other."

She laughed at this.

"You're suffering from land hunger, Donald," she said. "I shall have to write and get particulars of this desirable property!"

He frowned. "Have you any friends at the Cape?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I know a boy there—he was a Rhodes scholar—but I haven't written to him since he left England."

"H'm!" He was rather serious now. "When strangers come into the property market they soak 'em! Let me give you a word of advice: never try to buy land in South Africa through an agent—half of 'em are robbers, the other half an incompetent lot. One thing is certain, that the property at Paarl—that is where my farm is—will double itself in value in a couple of years. They are running a new railway through—it passes at the end of my land—and that will make an immense difference. If I had a lot of money to invest I should put every cent of it in land."

He explained, however, that the Cape Dutch, who were the largest landowners in the country, were a suspicious folk who never did business with an Englishman, except to the latter's disadvantage.

He took out the two hundred pound notes and looked at them again, rustling them affectionately.

"Why don't you put it back in the bank?" she asked.

"Because I like the feel of it," he said gaily. "These English notes are so clean-looking."

He returned the case to his pocket, and suddenly caught her by both arms. She saw a light in his eyes which she had never seen before. She was breathless and a little frightened.

"How long are we going to wait?" he asked in a low voice. "I can get a special licence; we can be married and on the Continent in two days."

She disengaged herself; discovered, to her amazement, that she was trembling, and that the prospect of an immediate marriage filled her with a sense of consternation.

"That is impossible," she said breathlessly. "I've ever such a lot of work to do, and I've got to finish up my work at the clinic. And, Donald, you said you didn't want to be married for months."

He smiled down at her.

"I can wait months or years," he said lightly, "but I can't wait for my lunch. Come along!"

She had only half an hour to give to him, but he promised to meet her and take her to dinner that night. The prospect did not arouse in her any sense of pleasurable anticipation. She told herself she loved him. He was everything that she would have him be. But immediate marriage? She shook her head.

"What are you shaking your head about?" he asked.

They were at Pussini's, and, as it was before one o'clock, the restaurant was empty save for themselves.

"I was just thinking," she said.

"About my farm?" He was looking at her searchingly. "No? About me?"

And then suddenly she asked: "What is your bank, Donald?"

He was completely surprised at the question.

"My bank? Well, the Standard Bank—not exactly the Standard Bank, but a bank that is affiliated with it. Why do you ask?"

She had a good and benevolent reason for putting the question, but this she was not prepared to reveal.

"I will tell you later," she said, and when she saw that she had worried him she was on the point of making her revelation. "It's really nothing, Donald."

He drove down with her to Tidal Basin, but refused the offer of her car to take him back, his excuse being that he felt nervous of the London traffic. She was secretly glad that there was some feature of London life of which he stood in awe.

Mr. Donald Bateman came back to town in a taxi and spent the afternoon in the City office of a tourist agency, examining Continental routes. He would like to have stayed in London; but then, he would like to have stayed in so many places from which expediency had dragged him. There was Inez. She had grown into quite a beautiful woman. He had seen her, though she was not aware of the fact. It was curious how women developed. He remembered her—rather sharp-featured, a gawk of a girl who had bored him utterly. In what way would Janice grow? For the moment she was very delectable, though she had qualities which exasperated him. Perfect women, he decided, were difficult to find.

When he had caught her by the shoulders that morning and looked down into her eyes, he had expected some other reaction than that fit of shivering. She had shown her alarm too clearly for him to carry the matter any further. It must be marriage, of course. But marriage was rather dangerous in a country like this. That reporter friend of hers? He hated reporters; they were a prying, unscrupulous lot. And crime reporters were the worst.

He began to feel uncomfortable, and turned relief to a contemplation of the physical perfection of Inez. From Inez his mind strayed to other women. What had become of Lorna, for example? Tommy had found her, probably, and forgiven everything. Tommy was always a weak-willed sap. But Inez!...

He and Janice dined together that night, and most resolutely he chose the Howdah Club. Already the outrage had had effect upon the attendance: the dining-room was half empty, and Gasso stalked up and down, a picture of gloom.

"This has ruined me, young miss," he said brokenly. "You were here last night with the newspaper gentleman. People will not come unless they have no jewels. And I particularly desire jewelled people here, but not jewelled as Miss Dolly!"

"I hope he comes to-night," said Donald with a quiet smile.

"You 'ope so, eh?" asked the agitated Gasso. "You desire me to be thrown into the street with only my shirt on my back? That is good for business!"

Janice was laughing, but she succeeded in pacifying the outraged maitre d'hotel.

"It certainly is empty, but I don't suppose we shall see our white-faced gentleman." said Donald. "It's rather like old times. I remember when I was in Australia there was a gang which held up a bank—they wore white masks, too. They got away with some money, by Jove! Ever heard of the Furses? They were brothers—the cleverest hold-up men in Australia."

"Perhaps this is one of them," she said thoughtlessly.

"Eh?"

She could have sworn he was frightened at that moment. Something she saw in his eyes. It was absurd, of course, for Donald Bateman was afraid of nothing.

"I shouldn't think so," he said.

Half-way through dinner, when they were discussing some amiable nothing, he dropped his knife and fork on the plate. Again she saw that frightened look intensified. He was staring at somebody, and she followed the direction of his eyes.

A man had come in. He must have been nearly sixty, was slim, dandified, rather fussy. He had a small party with him, and they were surrounded by waiters. Curiously enough, she knew him: curious, because she had made his acquaintance in a slum.

"Who—who is that?" His voice was strained. "That man there, with the girls? Do you—do you know him?"

"That is Dr. Rudd," she said.

"Rudd!"

"He's the police surgeon of our division—I've often seen him. In fact, he once came to the clinic. Quite an unpleasant man—he had nothing at all nice to say about our work."

"Dr. Rudd!"

The colour was coming back to his face. He had gone pale! She was astounded.

"Do you know him?" she asked in surprise.

He smiled with difficulty.

"No; he reminds me of somebody—an old friend of mine in —er—Rhodesia."

She noticed that when on their way out he passed the doctor's group Donald was patting his face with a handkerchief as though he were healing a scratch.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

"A little neuralgia." He laughed cheerily. "That is the penalty one pays for sleeping out night after night in the rain."

He told her a story of a rainfall in Northern Rhodesia that had lasted four weeks on end.

"And all that time," he said, "I had not so much as a tent."

She left him at the door of the flat in Bury Street, and he was frankly disappointed, for he had expected to be asked up to her apartment. There was consolation on the way back to the hotel, certain anticipations of an interview he had arranged for the morrow. It was not with Janice.