"She is considered one of the most delightful women in South Africa," said Bramham.
"Oh, she may be," Sophie's air was unbelieving; "but I don't see where it comes in."
She took her tea sulkily from Poppy's hand. Bramham looked bored. The little western wind blew again in his ear.
"Perhaps her charm is not to be seen. Perhaps it is an essence—a fragrance——"
Sophie scoffed at what she did not understand.
"Oh, you and your old poetry——"
"That's just what it is," said Bramham. "There's an odour of happiness about her that infects everyone who comes near her—no one cares a hang about what she wears or anything like that."
"Well, I don't like her, anyway," said Sophie, now thoroughly ill-tempered, "and I don't see why you do. She's covered with freckles."
That should have ended the matter, but Poppy's taste for torment was whetted.
"Perhaps Mr. Bramham doesn't know her as well as you do, Sophie," she said softly.