"I can make butter," she told him presently. "And bake bread?" said Burke.
She nodded, laughing. "Yes, and cook joints and mend clothes, too.
Who does your mending? Mary Ann?"
"I do my own," said Burke. "I cook, too, when Mary Ann takes leave of absence. But I have a Kaffir house boy, Joe, for the odd jobs. And there's a girl, too, uglier than Mary Ann, a relation of hers—called Rose, short for Fair Rosamond. Haven't you seen Rose yet?"
Sylvia's laugh brought a smile to his face. It was a very infectious laugh. Though she sobered almost instantly, it left a ripple of mirth behind on the surface of their conversation. He carried the tray away again when the meal was over, firmly refusing her offer to wash up.
"Mary Ann can do it in the morning," he said.
"Where is she now?" asked Sylvia.
He sat down beside her, and took out his pipe. "They are over in their own huts. They don't sleep in the house."
"Does no one sleep in the house?" she asked quickly.
"I do," said Burke.
A sudden silence fell. The dusk had deepened into a starlit darkness, but there was a white glow behind the hills that seemed to wax with every instant that passed. Very soon the whole veldt would be flooded with moonlight.