He followed her slow, reflective glance at Byng, and the impression of force and natural power of the millionaire struck him now, as it had often done.  As though summoned by them both, Byng turned his face and, catching Jasmine’s eyes, smiled and leaned forward.

“I haven’t got over that great outburst of singing yet,” he said, with a little jerk of the head towards the stage, where, for the moment, minor characters were in possession, preparing the path for the last rush of song by which Al’mah, the new prima donna, would bring her first night to a complete triumph.

With face turned full towards her, something of the power of his head seemed to evaporate swiftly.  It was honest, alert, and almost brutally simple—­the face of a pioneer.  The forehead was broad and strong, and the chin was square and determined; but the full, dark-blue eyes had in them shadows of rashness and recklessness, the mouth was somewhat self-indulgent and indolent; though the hands clasping both knees were combined of strength, activity, and also a little of grace.

“I never had much chance to hear great singers before I went to South Africa,” he added, reflectively, “and this swallows me like a storm on the high veld—­all lightning and thunder and flood.  I’ve missed a lot in my time.”

With a look which made his pulses gallop, Jasmine leaned over and whispered—­for the prima donna was beginning to sing again: 

“There’s nothing you have missed in your race that you cannot ride back and collect.  It is those who haven’t run a race who cannot ride back.  You have won; and it is all waiting for you.”

Again her eyes beamed upon him, and a new sensation came to him—­the kind of thing he felt once when he was sixteen, and the vicar’s daughter had suddenly held him up for quite a week, while all his natural occupations were neglected, and the spirit of sport was humiliated and abashed.  Also he had caroused in his time—­who was there in those first days at Kimberley and on the Rand who did not carouse, when life was so hard, luck so uncertain, and food so bad; when men got so dead beat, with no homes anywhere—­only shake-downs and the Tents of Shem?  Once he had had a native woman summoned to be his slave, to keep his home; but that was a business which had revolted him, and he had never repeated the experiment.  Then, there had been an adventuress, a wandering, foreign princess who had fooled him and half a dozen of his friends to the top of their bent; but a thousand times he had preferred other sorts of pleasures—­cards, horses, and the bright outlook which came with the clinking glass after the strenuous day.

Jasmine seemed to divine it all as she looked at him—­his primitive, almost Edenic sincerity; his natural indolence and native force:  a nature that would not stir until greatly roused, but then, with an unyielding persistence and concentrated force, would range on to its goal, making up for a slow-moving intellect by sheer will, vision and a gallant heart.