“The veldt is full of pictures—look at that one.” He glanced at the turquoise plain and the billowy clouds. “And can you tell me you have never heard its music—on the banks of a river under the stars?”
I could tell him nothing. I could only look away from his eyes.
“Great speakers!” he mused. “You must hear Cecil Rhodes some day telling the boys to extend the Empire.”
I did not speak.
“Books and sculpture—they are good, but ‘has life nothing better to give than these’?”
“I don’t think so,” I said firmly, but found myself adding a moment later, “I am not sure.”
He answered, “Africa will make you sure. She has a way of making it worth one’s while to stay with her. And if she loves you she will just put you in bonds and keep you, whether you will or no.”
“She can never do that to me,” I said, almost vehemently. “I am too exigeante, and I do not like bonds. Let us pray that she will not love me.” I essayed to laugh lightly, but my heart was beating in my throat, and an unaccountable agitation shook me. It seemed ridiculous to be so moved about nothing, sitting out there in the steaming sunshine with all life smiling. We were both staring before us away across the court and its players to the amethystine hills on the edge of the world. He did not look at me, nor I at him, but in a low voice that none but I could hear he said a strange thing:
“For your sake I could go back to prayers—but do not ask me to pray that.”