“Shall you be one of the flies?”
“Possibly. I enjoy being fascinated and I like honey! She is very amusing and dances like a moonbeam. Those are two coffee planters, wonderful pals and bridge players, and here comes a strange lady, probably a tourist—rich too.”
Shafto looked and saw a handsome grey-haired woman, with a round smiling face, wearing a long sable coat and an air of complacent prosperity.
“Why, for a wonder I know her!” he declared. “It’s Mrs. Milward. Her sister was our neighbour at home; I’ve met her often.”
“Who is she?”
“A widow—very rich, I believe. I think her daughter is married to a man in India—or Burma.”
“Is this the daughter following up the gangway?”
“No; I’ve never seen her before.”
“I say, what a pretty girl—and a ripping figure! Once seen, never forgotten, eh? When you have claimed the chaperon you must present me to the young lady—especially as you are out of the running yourself.”
“Out of the running—what do you mean?”