“Ah, poor chap,” went on the old man. “Milne was rather too fond of the Kafirs and Carhayes was a sight too much down on ’em. And now the Kafirs have done for them both, without fear, favour, or—”
“Tsh—tsh—tsh! Shut up, man alive, shut up!”
This was said in a low, warning whisper, and the speaker’s sleeve was violently plucked.
“Eh? What’s the row?” he asked, turning in amazement.
“Why, that’s her!” was the reply, more earnest than grammatical.
“Her? Who?”
“His wife, of course.”
A Cape cart was driving by, containing two ladies and two young girls. Of the former one was Mrs Hoste, the other Eanswyth. As they passed quite close to the speakers, Eanswyth turned her head with a bow and a smile to someone standing in front of the hotel. A dead, awkward silence fell upon the group of talkers.
“I say. She didn’t hear, did she?” stage-whispered the old man eagerly, when the trap had gone by.
“She didn’t look much as though she had—poor thing!” said another whom the serene, radiant happiness shining in that sweet face had not escaped.