The roses were there again to-night, deep and red and dewy, as if they had been plucked in a misty valley and were still wet with the dawn.
As she left the table, she took one from the bowl and stuck it into the V of her gown. It was carelessly done, but her hands trembled a little and her veins thrilled again as if in answer to some magnetic current which, whether it came from a magic stone or from a man’s eyes, made her feel curiously alive and daring. There is no thrill like the thrill of playing with fire that may blaze out and consume you (but you won’t let it), or standing on the edge of a precipice where you might fall over (but you are not going to).
Betaking herself to the cool gloom of the verandah, where coffee was served, she sat down by Mrs Cork. Out in the garden spectral figures were drenching the trees and flowers with water after the cruel heat of the day, and the place was full of the scent of wet earth. Said Mrs Cork:
“I have been so dull all day. Not a thought but to lie perdue under my mosquito-curtains until the sun went down.”
“Do you dislike the heat?” said Loree. “I find it stimulating.”
The other woman considered her with heavily shadowed eyes.
“It flattens me out like a glass of spilled milk. You haven’t been here long enough for it to take toll of you, but it will—body, soul, and spirit.”
Loree laughed, secure in her fresh beauty. Besides, it felt very safe to be Pat Temple’s wife.
“I should be inclined to challenge that if I had come to stay. We are only out here on a trip.”
“You’re lucky. Africa is all right as long as you can get away from her. But you should not challenge her. Like Fate, you never know what she has up her sleeve.”