glanced round at the company. "That's one of your cousin Haswell's
faults; he can never shake himself free of the thing, never get any real
recreation. I'd bet you a sovereign that he has a stenographer waiting
by a telephone in the next room, just in case any opportunity should
arise in the course of conversation. That is magnificent, but it is not
wise. His heart can't stand it; it will wear him out before his time.
Listen, they are all talking about the Sahara. I wish I were there; it
must be quiet at any rate. The sands beneath, the eternal stars above.
Yes, I wish I were there," he repeated with a sigh, and Alan noted that
although his face could not be more pallid than its natural colour, it
looked quite worn and old.

"So do I," he answered with enthusiasm.

Then a French gentleman on his left, having discovered that he was the
engineer who had formulated the great flooding scheme, began to address
him as "Cher maitre," speaking so rapidly his own language that Alan,
whose French was none of the best, struggled after him in vain. Whilst
he was trying to answer a question which he did not understand, the door
at the end of the hall opened, and through it appeared Barbara Champers.

It was a large hall and she was a long way off, which caused her to look
small, who indeed was only of middle height. Yet even at that distance
it was impossible to mistake the dignity of her appearance. A slim woman
with brown hair, cheerful brown eyes, a well-modelled face, a rounded
figure and an excellent complexion, such was Barbara. Ten thousand young
ladies could be found as good, or even better looking, yet something
about her differentiated her from the majority of her sex. There was
determination in her step, and overflowing health and vigour in her
every movement. Her eyes had a trick of looking straight into any other