never returned. In the previous century two Cravens had succumbed
to the fascination of the North West Passage, another had vanished
in Central Asia. Barry's grandfather had perished in a dust storm
in the Sahara. And it was to the North African desert that his own
thoughts turned most longingly. Japan had satisfied him for a
time--but only for a time. Western civilisation had there obtruded
too glaringly, and he had admitted frankly to himself that it was
not Japan but O Hara San that kept him in Yokohama. The dark
courtyard and the faintly lighted windows faded. He saw instead a
tiny well-remembered oasis in Southern Algeria, heard the
ceaseless chatter of Arabs, the shrill squeal of a stallion, the
peevish grunt of a camel, and, rising above all other sounds, the
whine of the tackling above the well. And the smell--the cloying
smell that goes with camel caravans, it was pungent! He flung up
his head inhaling deeply, then realised that the scent that filled
the room was not the acrid smell of the desert but the penetrating
odour of incense filtering in through the opened door. It shut and
he turned reluctantly.

He saw at first only a pair of great brown eyes, staring almost
defiantly, set in a small pale face, that looked paler by contrast
with the frame of dark brown hair. Then his gaze travelled slowly
over the slender black-clad figure silhouetted against the
polished panels. His fear was substantiated. Not a child who could
be relegated to nurses and governesses, but a girl in the dawn of
womanhood. Passionately he cursed John Locke.

He felt a fool, idiotically tongue-tied. He had been prepared to
adopt a suitably paternal attitude towards the small child he
had expected. A paternal attitude in connection with this