She reached her glass, and looked in.
"I think not."
CHAPTER V
BRAMHAM and Carson sat smoking in the verandah of Sea House. Before them, not two hundred yards away, lay the sea, washing and rippling on the beach under the full of the moon. Behind them, through the open French windows a number of large woolly moths were buzzing in and out, much intrigued by the light that shone through a pink silk lamp-shade, which had been made and presented to the establishment by Mrs. Brookfield, on the occasion of her husband's accession to Bramham's mess for six weeks. The electric-lights had been turned out to keep the room as clear as possible of insects. It was Bramham's house, and they were Bramham's native servants who stepped so gently, removing the dinner-things deftly without clamour, making no sound but the rustle of bare feet on polished boards and an occasional softly-spoken Zulu word.
Bramham's household included no woman, but there was no better-appointed one in Natal. Having laid bare the gleaming oak dining-table, one of the boys solemnly spread down its centre a strip of silver embroidery, while another placed two silver bowls of roses at each end, and removed the lamp with the pink shade to a side table. Afterwards the ice-bucket was replenished and fresh glasses placed near the spirit-tantalus.
Having performed these duties with the greatest decorum and ceremony, they withdrew silently to the back regions of the house, where their solemnity slipped from them as suddenly as water slips from a Kaffir's skin. They disported themselves amongst the pot-washers and dish cleaners, the cooks and stable-boys, with many a merry snicker and laugh, chattering like magpies, clicking and clacking, and crying "Hah!" over the affairs of the Old Baas (the master of natives is always Old whatever his age) and the various other Baases who sat at Bramham's board with regular irregularity.
Ha! ha! where was Shlalaimbona to-night, they inquired among themselves. It is true that he would sleep here in the house of the Old Baas, as he had now done for many nights, but where did he eat to-night? In the house on the hill, where a white star was hidden by day and by night?
No; the information was forthcoming that he dined to-night at the house of Por-tal—he who was gay always with an angry face and had the wife whose hands could smooth away troubles.
And where, the cook particularly desired to know, was Bechaan? He whom the world called Brookfield—who had slept in the house of Umkoomata for the matter of six weeks now? Where was he to-night? Followed the tale of the return of Mrs. Bechaan, with particulars amazing.