Brenda was on the stoep waiting for him when Matheson reached the house. She must have witnessed the parting between him and the Aplin girls, which had been sufficiently leisurely to excite resentment in view of her long wait. He forestalled any remark by apologising for his lateness.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “Twice I was stopped on the way here. I ought to have been with you half an hour ago. I met a man—a Dutchman—Nel: he kept me. He wants me to join Botha’s army.”
She scrutinised him closely.
“And you’re going to?” she said.
“Yes.”
“These changes are a little unsettling,” she observed after a brief reflection. “I was quite prepared for Europe.”
“You don’t mind?” he asked quickly.
“No.” She stood touching his coat softly, caressingly, with her fingers; and her eyes wore a look of quiet satisfaction, almost of relief. “I’ve dreaded France for you. Out here a man has a chance—a sporting chance; over there it’s a war of chemicals. No; I’m not brave. I never wanted you to go.”
“One has to defend the Empire,” he said.
“Oh! yes.” She smiled suddenly. “No woman really admires the man who thinks otherwise. But...”