“Not badly put,” said Mrs. Blair, nodding her head. “Tell me all about yourself, Gipsy girl. Why are you going to South Africa?”
I told her something about Papa’s life work.
“So you’re Charles Beddingfeld’s daughter? I thought you weren’t a mere provincial Miss! Are you going to Broken Hill to grub up more skulls?”
“I may,” I said cautiously. “I’ve got other plans as well.”
“What a mysterious minx you are. But you do look tired this morning. Didn’t you sleep well? I can’t keep awake on board a boat. Ten hours’ sleep for a fool, they say! I could do with twenty!”
She yawned, looking like a sleepy kitten. “An idiot of a steward woke me up in the middle of the night to return me that roll of films I dropped yesterday. He did it in the most melodramatic manner, stuck his arm through the ventilator and dropped them nearly in the middle of my tummy. I thought it was a bomb for a moment!”
“Here’s your Colonel,” I said, as the tall soldierly figure of Colonel Race appeared on the deck.
“He’s not my Colonel particularly. In fact he admires you very much, Gipsy girl. So don’t run away.”
“I want to tie something round my head. It will be more comfortable than a hat.”
I slipped quickly away. For some reason or other I was uncomfortable with Colonel Race. He was one of the few people who were capable of making me feel shy.