do this."

"These," I ventured to remark, "are not the wilds."

He sighed and replaced his pipe in his mouth.

"You are young, very young," he remarked, thoughtfully. "You have that
beastly hothouse education, big ideas on thin stalks, orchids instead of
roses, the stove instead of the sun. The wilds are everywhere--on the
Thames Embankment, even in this God-forsaken corner of the world. The
wilds are wherever men meet men."

I was silent. Who was I to argue with Ray, whose fame was in every
one's mouth--soldier, traveller, and diplomatist? For many years he had
been living hand and glove with life and death. There were many who
spoke well of him, and many ill--many to whom he was a hero, many to
whom his very name was like poison. But he was emphatically not a man
to contradict. In my little cottage he seemed like a giant,
six-foot-two, broad, and swart with the burning fire of tropical suns.
He seemed to fill the place, to dominate me and my paltry surroundings,
even as in later years I saw him, the master spirit in a great assembly,
eagle-eyed, strenuous, omnipotent. There was something about him which
made other men seem like pygmies. There was force in the stern
self-repression of his speech, in the curve of his lips, the clear
lightning of his eyes.

My silence did not seem altogether to satisfy him. I felt his eyes
challenge mine, and I was forced to meet his darkly questioning gaze.

"Come," he said, "I trust that I have said enough. You have buried the