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 HERE were no further excitements that night. I had breakfast in bed and got up late the next morning. Mrs. Blair hailed me as I came on deck.

"Good-morning, Gipsy girl, sit down here by me. You look as though you hadn't slept well."

"Why do you call me that?" I asked, as I sat down obediently.

"Do you mind? It suits you somehow. I've called you that in my own mind from the beginning. It's the gipsy element in you that makes you so different from any one else. I decided in my own mind that you and Colonel Race were the only two people on board who wouldn't bore me to death to talk to."

"That's funny," I said, "I thought the same about you—only it's more understandable in your case. You're—you're such an exquisitely finished product."

"Not badly put," said Mrs. Blair, nodding her head. "Tell me all about yourself, Gipsy girl. Why are you going to South Africa?"

I told her something about Papa's life work.

"So you're Charles Beddingfeld's daughter? I thought you weren't a mere provincial Miss! Are you going to Broken Hill to grub up more skulls?"

"I may," I said cautiously. "I've got other plans as well."

"What a mysterious minx you are. But you do look tired this morning. Didn't you sleep well? I can't keep