"Miss Chard's house is burnt to the ground. The whole town knows now that she is Eve Destiny, the South African novelist——"
"The how much?"
"The South African novelist. The woman who wrote the book of poems that set all the African mothers flying to lock the nursery doors—and the plays In a Tin Hotel at Witpoortje and A Veldt Ghost. Why, Carson, you don't seem to know anything! You ought to employ someone to dig you up every five years."
Because of his desire for further information on this interesting subject, Carson kept his temper between his teeth and bore as best he might with Bramham's unusual wit. It was to be remembered, too, that Bramham was a "good man," and as such permitted a lapse. However, if the latter had anything more to tell he kept it to himself, and only gave a repetition of his former statements with a graphic description, which Carson was not at all interested in, of the fire.
One thing alone, stood out, a salient point in the narrative:
"And I happen to know that everything she has is burnt. With the exception of a few royalties, she is penniless. All her finished work is burnt—everything she had in the world. She had a face like a banshee when I told her," was his complimentary conclusion.
Carson departed and took a bath and shave on this information. Afterwards he went down and looked at the sea. When he came in to breakfast, a sane and calm Charles Bramham was seated there before him—bathed, groomed, dressed, eating an orange with a tea-spoon.
They took breakfast with the appetites and serenity of good men, who having passed an excellent night, were about to attack the problems of the day with clear consciences. There was nothing noticeable about Bramham, except a thirst for tea.
Just before they had finished, Carson casually said:
"I'm going up to the Rand to sell everything I hold."