sleepy, a little languorous, lying with her pretty face deep in the soft pillow, and her escaped hair flowing—brown-gold tresses—round about her head. The sun was on our feet. A little canary she had bought yesterday was singing snatches of song in the morning-room. The idea of her solemn bestowal of that half-awakened kiss made me smile brightly at her. The little canary was singing snatches of song. The sun was on our feet.
III
That was the morning of the evening on which I received a book and a letter from Mrs. Herbert, enclosing another—from Starkie, at last! I read Mrs. Herbert's first, in order to be able to better give myself up to Starkie's and the book, which I guessed was Brooke's. There was nothing of any interest in hers; a mere report of the satisfactory condition of things at Dunraven Place. Then I opened Starkie's, and began reading it slowly. He had caught up Clarkson at Zanzibar. Things were not going as well as they might. Two months frittered away in taking great pains about doing nothing! But they had at last started, and here they were on the Continent. Clarkson wanted to turn down to Lake Intangweolo, instead of making for Lake Eugenie, to explore that block, which was comparatively unknown; whereas the other place was both known and interestless, save for the fact that poor old Osbaldistone died there. He, Starkie, should like to know what the devil was Clarkson going to do in that galère? Get fever or dysentery and manure a patch of sand? He could not possibly say when they might be back; perhaps not at all. He had a faint hope that it might possibly be before next year was out. But he couldn't write any more of this stuff. He was out of sorts—in the blues. Clarkson seemed determined to give his name to a new species of beast, or bird, or die in the attempt. They'd do no good this time. Only another instance of wasted time, and wasted treasure, and perhaps wasted—life. But here was the end, or he
