tell you at all, because, for one thing, it is Africa. I think you can't tell much about Africa, no matter how much you talk of it or how many pictures of it you show, except to someone who has been there—and him you do not need to tell because he knows. But I can tell you one thing about it, Mr. Ogle."
She turned from the sea to look at him, and, returning her grave regard with some intensity, he asked: "What is the one thing?"
"I think," she said slowly, "you will be glad afterwards that you went there. I think you may find somesing in Algeria, Mr. Ogle."
"You mean local colour, types, landscape?"
She still continued to look at him, and he thought that into this fixed gaze of hers, very pleasant to him, there came a mysteriousness, something impenetrable from the depths. "Well, I mean—somesing!" Then she laughed. "Do you know if Mr. Tinker goes there, too?"
"Heaven forbid!" he said.
