Save for
the orange grove at the left and the ash-colored leaves of the
silver wattle above them, Weldon could almost have fancied himself
in England. The lawn with its conventional tennis court was
essentially English; English, too, the tray with its fixtures.
There, however, the resemblance stopped. The ebony handmaiden who
brought out the tray was never found in private life outside the
limits of South Africa. When she sought foreign countries, it was
merely as a denizen of a midway plaisance.
"Yes, and their names are their most distinctive feature," Alice
assented to Weldon's comment.
"More than their mouths?" he asked, with a flippant recollection
of Kruger Roberts engrossed in his jam tin.
"At least as much so," she responded, laughing. "You notice that I
called our maid Syb. She told me, when she came, that her old master
named her Sybarite. I understood it, the next day, when I found her
snoring on the drawing-room sofa."
During the time of her answer, Weldon took his opportunity to look
steadily at his young hostess. Up to the moment of the shifting of
the groups, he had been too fully absorbed in the pleasure of once
more meeting Ethel to pay much heed to any one else.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96