“By the way, I was driving back from his place when I met you this morning. We’d been inspecting the specimens his partner had prospected. Cornwall has instructions to hand them over to you in the morning. They are unmistakable.”
“And in spite of all this you still sold to me?”
“My bond was given,” he said curtly.
She had risen too, and they were facing each other—about them all the chirping night things—peace everywhere except in their hearts. Music came faintly stealing from the dancing-room.
“So after all Africa has brought you luck,” he said.
She trembled under the contempt his tone betrayed for that luck, but something in her that wished to live would not be daunted by his scorn. And that something spoke in spite of her, in a gentle, alluring voice.
“Do you think it is such great luck? Can you from your heart wish me no better?”
“The luck I would wish you entails advice you would never take.”
“Try me,” her voice was very low and sweet, with a broken note in it. “Try me—Kerry.”
He looked at her sombrely. His face seemed to have grown more haggard. At last he said: “If you lived in the wilds awhile, under happier circumstances than those you have come through, the real woman in you might have a chance to live... you would come to realise how rotten they are, all these lucky things you set such store by.”