“You bitten with the land mania too, Miss Carlton?”
“Yes.”
“There’s plenty of it about,” he remarked tentatively. “And de Windt’s not particularly keen on selling.”
“It must be his farm or none,” she said firmly. “I have a particular fancy for the place.”
“Oh, well! I’ll see what I can do for you. It’s a good offer, more than the farm is worth, I think. De Windt’s lying ill at present with a bad go of malaria. But I’ll put the matter to him and let you know the result.”
“Thank you.”
She went inside again, and sat on her bed pretending to wonder where the money was to come from. In reality she knew perfectly well, and she didn’t care. She was in the dirty business now, up to her eyebrows, for loss or gain. If she gained she would give back Montague his 800 pounds and a wave of the hand. If she lost she must marry him and forever hide the fact that he had been no more than a cat’s-paw and a pis aller.
“He is too good for me anyway,” she reflected. “Any man is too good for me. I’ve become a scoundrel and an adventuress. Three months of South Africa have done wonders for me! And I don’t care—I don’t care!”
She bathed her hot face but could not take the burn from it. It was still brightly flushed, making her look very young and lovely, when she stood before Montague and proffered her abrupt request.
“Will you lend me a thousand pounds for three months?”