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Updated: June 22, 2025
Meredith, bring up breakfast, if you please." On the doorstep Jack Meredith looked at his watch. He had an appointment with Millicent Chyne at half-past eleven an hour when Lady Cantourne might reasonably be expected to be absent at the weekly meeting of a society which, under the guise and nomenclature of friendship, busied itself in making servant girls discontented with their situations.
"But," he continued, "between us let it be understood that I move in no degree from my original position. I object to Millicent Chyne as your wife. But I bow to the force of circumstances. I admit that you have a perfect right to marry whom you choose in two months time." So Jack took his leave.
He whined and cringed to his own offspring, and begged him to give him the bottle. He dragged across the floor on his knees three thousand pounds a year on its knees to Guy Oscard, who wanted that money because he knew that he would never get Millicent Chyne without it. "Get back to bed!" repeated Guy sternly, and at last the man crept sullenly between the rumpled sheets.
Millicent Chyne, like Guy, was hampered at the outset of life by theories upon it. Experience, the fashionable novel, and modern cynicism had taught her to expect little from human nature a dangerous lesson, for it eases responsibility, and responsibility is the Ten Commandments rolled into a compact whole, suitable for the pocket.
"I am sorry that our young friend is going to leave us," said Sir John, taking up and unfolding the morning paper. "He is honest and candid, if he is nothing else." This meant that Guy Oscard's admiration for Millicent Chyne had never been concealed for a moment, and Lady Cantourne knew it.
About noon, the cutter was abreast off the Black Gang Chyne: Ramsay had calculated upon retaining possession of the cutter, and taking the whole of the occupants of the cave over to Cherbourg; but this was now impossible.
Because, you see, your life is something which does not belong to you, but with which you are trusted. I mean, if there is anything dangerous to be done, let some one else do it. What is she like? What is her name?" "Her name is Millicent Millicent Chyne." "And what is she like?"
"I do not want any more dinner," he said, "I am going to Africa. Come and help me to pack my things." He studied Bradshaw and wrote a note to Millicent Chyne. To her he said the same as he had said to the butler, "I am going to Africa." There was something refreshingly direct and simple about this man. He did not enter into long explanations. He simply bore on in the line he had marked out.
"Of course," said Sir John, "when I die you will be a baronet, and there will be enough to live on like a gentleman. You had better tell Miss Chyne that. She may not know it. Girls are so innocent. But I am not dead yet, and I shall take especial care to live some time." "In order to prevent my marriage?" suggested Jack. He was still smiling, and somehow Sir John felt a little uneasy.
He gazed, blinking his lashless lids, at the heap of letters, and the corner of another envelope presently arrested his attention. It was of the same paper, of the same shape and hue, as that addressed to Miss Chyne. Sir John drew a deep breath, and reached out his hand. The letter had come at last. At last, thank God!
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