Judy’s hut was made of mud and thatch, like the rest of those I had seen in all the other townships, only to my disappointment it was not round like a beehive, but low and long—rather like a thatched barn with a verandah to it. But the front door stood open and I could see into a sitting-room that looked homelike and cosy under the rays of a rose-red lamp.
Judy came out at once, and three natives appeared behind her, eyeing me curiously and shyly.
“The boys will bring in your things, dear. How tired you must be! Do come in. I have ordered something for you to eat at once, and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe and Mrs Brand and Miss Cleeve and Mrs Valetta have all come to welcome you, too. They’re all Salisburyites.”
“How sweet of them,” I said crossly. I thought they might very well have postponed their welcome until the next day. Neither did they look particularly ardent as Judy introduced them. They touched hands languorously and sank back into their chairs, fanning themselves with palm-leaf fans and gazing piercingly at me. I blessed the god of chiffons once more and retired into the dimmest corner I could find. It was quite a big room, pretty and odd, and had been furnished and arranged (as I afterwards learned) by the Native Commissioner for his wife who was coming from England very shortly. He had lent it in the meanwhile to Judy and the lady I had last been introduced to—Mrs Valetta. All the panoply of native warfare was displayed upon the walls: shields, knives, assegais, head-plumes, and bracelets; besides much-coloured bead-work, snuff-boxes, and curious gourds. The chairs were covered with beautiful fur rugs, called karrosses, and lion and wild-cat skins lay upon the floor.
I longed and prayed that Judy would take me away at once to bed, or, failing that, would let me at least go and remove one of my many coats of dust, but she pushed me into a chair, saying:
“Here is your tray, dear. Now do take off your veil and eat something.”
I was obliged to do as she asked with as much grace as I could summon: but the dormant cat which is in every woman began to wake up in me and sharpen its claws; for all round about me in the room I began to hear the soft and gentle purring of other felines, and in eyes that raked my sun-flushed face and disarranged hair (grey eyes and brown, Persian blue and an odd shade of green) I recognised the same expression I had often seen in the eyes of our big tortoise-shell cat, Elaine, when she was stalking a bird in the garden.
There was antagonism in the air. As I sat amongst the kaffir curios before an amazing tea-tray I felt it. For some reason these women who had come to welcome me resented my advent and were maliciously inclined towards me. I am peculiarly sensitive to the mental atmosphere and I felt it. Even Judy was not really friendly. She had changed very much since I had last seen her. A peevish look hovered round her mouth and all her brightness and dash seemed to have been swallowed up in a great languor.
Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, a little, soft kitten of a woman with striped grey eyes and the softest, whitest paws in the world, peached out and gave me the first scratch.
“Your complexion is spoiled for ever, Miss Saurin. When any one with your peculiar shade of mahogany-coloured hair gets so badly sunburnt as that the skin never recovers. I am awfully sorry for you.” She looked perfectly delighted.