It was the night before we were to sail. I couldn’t sleep. I was miserable, and I didn’t know why. I hated leaving Africa. When I came back to it, would it be the same thing? Would it ever be the same thing again?
And then I was startled by an authoritative rap on the shutter. I sprang up. Harry was on the stoep outside.
“Put some clothes on, Anne, and come out. I want to speak to you.”
I huddled on a few garments, and stepped out into the cool night air—still and scented, with its velvety feel. Harry beckoned me out of earshot of the house. His face looked pale and determined and his eyes were blazing.
“Anne, do you remember saying to me once that women enjoyed doing the things they disliked for the sake of some one they liked?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what was coming.
He caught me in his arms.
“Anne, come away with me—now—to-night. Back to Rhodesia—back to the island. I can’t stand all this tomfoolery. I can’t wait for you any longer.”
I disengaged myself a minute.
“And what about my French frocks?” I lamented mockingly.