“May I?” was the obvious rejoinder—indeed, the only possible one.
“Why not, Mr Holt? I’m sure if there is anybody whom we have every reason to look upon as one of ourselves it is you.” Yet with the words, frank and friendly as they were, ever so slight a colour had come into the sweet calm face. But before I could make any reply Iris emitted a loud whistle.
“Look at that, Beryl,” she cried derisively. “And then you call him ‘Mr Holt.’”
“The very thing I was going to remark upon,” I said.
“Very well, then,” said Beryl. “Then I won’t do it again.” This time the colour had disappeared, but I could have sworn I caught a momentary look in those soulful eyes that would have justified me, had I been alone, in throwing my hat in the air and hooraying, or executing any other frantic and maniacal manoeuvre indicative of delirious exaltation.
“Then it’s a bargain,” I said.
“Yes,” smiled Beryl.
Now what had given rise to that dear child’s original remark was a certain conversation that had been held that morning over at the kraals at counting-out time.
“Why don’t you make up your mind to stop out here altogether, Holt?” Brian had said, as, the job aforesaid over, we were leaning against a gate watching the flocks streaming away to their respective pasture grounds. “You seem to take to the life, too. Man, you’ll never feel at home in one of those beastly stuffy offices again after this, grinding away at figures. Why don’t you cut loose from it all, and fix up out here? You can do it. Don’t you think he ought, dad?”
“I think he might do worse,” was the answer. “As you say, he seems to take readily enough to it.”