“Well, of course. But I didn’t know he was alive from that night until a few weeks before you came. And he saved all four of our lives—but that part of the story you know. Well that’s all—and, thank God it is.”
The narrator closed his eyes wearily and lay still. The listener sat there, still holding his hand. Her glance rested upon the firm, fine features, and a great yearning was round her heart. What a tragedy had this man’s life been. Her thoughts went round to Edala. Had she been in Edala’s place would she have taken everything on trust? She thought she would: she was sure she would.
“Why didn’t you tell Edala all this, Inqoto?” she asked. “When she was old enough I mean.”
“She wouldn’t have believed me. Do you?”
He had opened his eyes and was fixing them full on her face. But not the slightest sign of doubt or misgiving did he read there. On the contrary the expression was one of complete trust.
“Haven’t I already said so?” she answered.
“Do you know, Evelyn, since I have been lying here I have found myself wishing you had never found us out at all.”
She looked hurt. “Why, Inqoto?”
“Because child,” and he smiled a little at her still slight difficulty with the dick. “I am wondering how I am ever going to do without you again. You did threaten to take yourself off once you know.”
“Well I can’t inflict myself upon you for ever,” she answered, with a laugh. “But I have been very happy at Sipazi—very.”