As a
rule, Ethel talked shop with no man. She merely looked sympathetic,
and left him to do the talking, which he did unhesitatingly and
without reservation. From the first hour of their meeting, Weldon
had been the one exception. Even in the hospital at Johannesburg,
she had gone over with him in detail his experiences in camp and
field, and it had been Weldon by no means who had done all the
talking.
To-day, as she had welcomed the tall Canadian in his irreproachable
frock-coat, she had known a sudden pang of regret. Undeniably, his
tailor was an artist. Nevertheless, she liked him better as she had
seen him last, in his stained khaki and his well-worn shoes, bending
over her hand in farewell, then taking The Nig's bridle from the
waiting Kruger Bobs, to leap into the tarnished saddle, lift his hat
and ride away out of sight. No one but Ethel herself had known that
it was not distance alone which had rendered him invisible to her.
And the next week in the hospital had dragged perceptibly. At the
end of that time, she had been quite ready to say good by to
Johannesburg and all that it contained. But, meanwhile, her smile
gave no clue to her memories, as she offered her hand to Weldon.
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