He recognised in the speaker one Jessie Garrett, a daughter of Joe of that ilk.
“Well, she’s very pretty, there’s no doubt about that,” answered her partner, a stalwart young ostrich-farmer from the Graaff Reinet district.
“Should you admire her as much as Ethel Brathwaite?”
“No; I don’t think she’s a patch on Miss Brathwaite; but there’s something awfully fetching about her, for all that.”
“Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. I think she’s too colourless—washed-out looking,”—a fault the speaker herself could in no wise plead guilty to. She was a pretty girl herself, in the florid, barmaid style, but as different a creature to Lilian Strange as a plump dabchick to an Arctic tern.
Claverton’s lips curled as he looked from the offending couple to the object of their remarks.
She to be discussed according to the clod-hopping ideas of louts and scullery-maids. He turned away disgusted. Suddenly he heard himself hailed in loud and jovial tones, and, looking up, found himself in the vicinity of the refreshment table, where three or four ancient settlers were exchanging reminiscences, and occasionally clinking glasses. Prominent among them was old Garrett, his rubicund visage now nearly purple.
“I sh-shay, C-Claveringsh!” called out this worthy. “C-come and have a what-sh-may call a eye-opener—hic!”
“All right.”
“Thas righ’sh. Told yer ’ee ain’t proud,” cried the old fellow, beaming triumphantly on the rest, and attempting to bestow upon Claverton a friendly slap on the back, which the latter quietly evaded. He contemplated the individual before him with vast amusement, and speculated as to how soon this worthy’s early retirement would become imperative.