The lounge was a pleasant place, with French windows leading into the garden; deep chairs and palms were scattered everywhere, and it smelled fragrantly of coffee and cigars. Groups of men and women clustered about the small tables, smoking and talking. One corner was fenced off by a little counter, from behind which a distinguished-looking waiter dispensed cocktails and liqueurs with the air of a duke bestowing decorations. This was Léon, who knew the pet drinks and secret sins of everyone in South Africa, but whose discreet eyes told nothing. The knowledge he possessed of men, women, and things would have made a fascinating volume, but no one had been able to unseal his lips. He hardly ever spoke, simply mixing the drinks and indicating with his hand the tables to which they should be carried. April was in the presence of a personage without being aware of it. Neither did she know until much later that this pleasant lounge was one of the principal gossip centres of the country. In its smoky atmosphere many a fair reputation has withered away, many a great name been tarnished for ever. As for the baby scandals that are born there, have legs and arms and wings stuck on to them and are sent anteloping or flying all over the country, their name is legion!
Bellew had left her immediately after lunch. He said that he had an appointment with an old friend of his mother's, and should be leaving to stay with her for several days before continuing his journey. April had, in fact, from her seat in the lounge seen him come out of the lift into the hall accompanied by a little bent old lady, and watched them drive away together in a taxi. Thereafter she breathed more freely, and a longing to be in the open air out of this smoke-laden atmosphere moved her to extricate herself from the chattering crowd of women and make her way to the veranda. It was cool and fresh there under the stone porticoes, with veils of green creepers hanging between her and the blazing sunshine and colour of the garden. She sat down, and, as is always the way with a woman in moments of silence and beauty, her thoughts immediately clustered about the image of the man she loved. What was Vereker Sarle thinking of her? Would he go from the Cape to his home up north without trying to see her again? While she pondered these things he walked out through one of the tall French windows and came towards her, followed by his dark, saturnine friend. They approached like men sure of a welcome, Sarle smiling in his disarmingly boyish fashion, the other man smiling too: but with a difference. There was some quality of sardonic amusement and curiosity in his glance that arrested April's instant attention.
"I warned you that it is hard to shake off your friends in this country," said Sarle gaily. "May we come and sit with you for a little while? Sir Ronald tells me that you and he are quite old friends."
Her heart gave a leap. Instantly she understood the sardonic amusement of the stranger's demeanour. If any other man than Sarle had been there she would have thrown up the sponge. But she could not bear to have the truth stripped and exposed there before him. It was too brutal. If he must know, he should know in a less cruel manner than that. She faced the new-comer squarely, her features frozen to an outward composure.
"This is a very pleasant surprise, Lady Di!" he said easily, while his eyes expressed the utmost amusement. "It must be nearly two years since we met?"
"Oh, surely much longer than that?" she answered, and her smile was almost as mocking as his. They stood taking each other's measure whilst Sarle dragged forward some chairs. A faint admiration came into the man's face. She was a fraud, and he knew that she knew that he knew it, but he had also to acknowledge that there was fine metal in her even for an adventuress. As a duellist at least she seemed worthy of his steel. Besides, in her gown of faint lilac and her orchid-laden hat she was a very entrancing vision. The duel might be picturesque as well as piquant.
"I trust you left Lord Vernilands well?" he inquired politely. She dug desperately in her mind for a moment. It seemed foolishly important to be truthful, even though this man knew she was acting a lie.
"He is never very well in the winter," she answered, without any apparent interlude for thought. Sir Ronald was even more pleased with her.
"That is so," he agreed. "I remember when I left Bethwick that autumn he was just in for his annual bout of bronchitis."
The two men sat down, and, with her permission, smoked. Sarle had placed his chair where he could look full at her, missing no shade of expression on her face. His frank warm eyes enfolded her in a gaze of trust and devotion that was as patent to the other man as to her. There was no peace for her in that gaze; things were too desperate for that; but it nerved her resolution to fence to the death with this polished gamester. She had her back to the wall, and resolved to die fighting rather than make an ignominious surrender before the man she loved.