Then he pushed aside the hanging flowers and passed out.
"Good-bye!" he said over his shoulder.
Her lips moved, but he heard no sound.

She turned with a white, drawn face and sat down again.

The paper was still in her hand.

She consulted it again, reading in a whisper: "Millicent Chyne--Millicent!" She turned the paper over and studied the back of it--almost as if she was trying to find what there was behind that name.
Through the trees there rose and fell the music of the distant surf.
Somewhere near at hand a water-wheel, slowly irrigating the rice-fields, creaked and groaned after the manner of water-wheels all over Africa.
In all there was that subtle sense of unreality--that utter lack of permanency which touches the heart of the white exile in tropic lands, and lets life slip away without allowing the reality of it to be felt.
The girl sat there with the name before her--written on the little slip of paper--the only memento he had left her..