Then he turned around to face the girl, seated where her
golden hair seemed to him to catch and hold all the light centering
about the gay little tea-table.
"Don't," he said with some impatience. "Your arguments all echo my
own wish. I am pulled in two ways at once. At home, the mother is
growing restless. Since Vlaakfontein, she has lost her nerve, and
her heart is set on my meeting her in London in October."
Deliberately Ethel made a neat triangle out of three unused spoons.
"Well?" she said, without looking up.
"Piggie and I have had a smell of powder," he answered briefly. "We
want more."
"Well?" she said again.
"The question is, are we likely to get it."
"Not in England; not even in Cape Town," she answered, smiling at
the spoons before her.
"Then where?"
"Wherever the Boers are thickest."
"Yes; but, after all, you are talking platitudes, Miss Dent," he
said, with recurring impatience.
This time, she lifted her dark blue eyes to his face and allowed
them to rest there for a full minute.
"But you forbade me to argue," she said demurely.
He dropped down into a chair and faced her resolutely.
"Now look here, Miss Dent, I can't talk shop in tea-table English.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158