Meredith, he argued to
himself, had always risen to the occasion: why should he not rise
to this? He was not the sort of man to die from want of staying
power, which, after all, is the cause of more deaths than we dream
of. And when he had recovered he would either return or send back
Joseph with a letter containing those suggestions of his which were
really orders.
Of Millicent Chyne he thought more often, with a certain tranquil
sense of a good time to come. In her also he placed a perfect
faith. A poet has found out that, if one places faith in a man, it
is probable that the man will rise to trustworthiness--of woman he
says nothing. But of these things Guy Oscard knew little. He went
his own tranquilly strong way, content to buy his own experience.
He was thinking of Millicent Chyne one misty morning while he walked
slowly backwards and forwards before his tent. His knowledge of the
country told him that the mist was nothing but the night's
accumulation of moisture round the summit of the mountain--that down
in the valleys it was clear, and that half an hour's sunshine would
disperse all. He was waiting for this result when he heard a rifle-
shot far away in the haze beneath him; and he knew that it was
Joseph--probably making one of those marvellous long shots of his
which roused a sudden sigh of envy in the heart of this mighty
hunter whenever he witnessed them.
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