“A man in my position wouldn’t be serving in a café,” she explained. “If I had a profession I would work at it, and not grumble.”
And then he made a clumsy remark which immediately on its utterance he would have recalled, had that been possible.
“You will have a home of your own some day. That’s a woman’s rightful profession.”
He felt her withdraw from him, and in the dragging silence that followed he realised his mistake. How could he tell what jangling chord his clumsy touch had set vibrating? Misfortune had played so busy a part in her life that love had had little chance.
“Where are you staying?” he asked presently—“with whom?”
“My mother came back to Cape Town to be with me,” she said. “We board in a little house not far from the Gardens.”
“Do you think I might come to see you there?” he asked.
“Of course. Mother would like to meet you. She knows all about you.”
She hesitated, and then said with some embarrassment:
“Before you call I ought perhaps to tell you more about ourselves...”