She came to a halt abruptly, and stood still, and looked down at the sea which bubbled at her feet in the interstices of the rocks, and made a soft splashing sound amongst the weed. She was not observing things consciously; her mind was intent on the man beside her, busy with the moment, and, despite the moment’s happiness, oppressed with the sense of finality which the impending parting conveyed. She desired to be a bright and cheerful companion, and instead she was proving, she feared, rather dull. The warm, firm clasp of his hand somewhat confused her ideas. The baldest commonplace was all the utterance she found it possible to make.
“To-morrow at this time you will be in the train,” she remarked suddenly, snapping the silence which was beginning to embarrass her.
“Yes,” he answered. “Awful bore, isn’t it? The heat will be intolerable. I shall be cursing fate, and wishing myself back here... on this rock with you. It’s good, isn’t it? Lift your face and feel the breeze on your cheek. It’s like a breath—nature’s cool sweet breath. And that jolly little duck of the sea between the rocks... Will you come here again afterwards?”
“No,” she replied, and did not give, nor did he ask for, a reason. “We go back in a week,” she added.
“And then the holiday comes to an end?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my play time is finished too. I thought it would last longer, but necessity demands that I should earn a living. Why wasn’t I born a Kaffir? No Kaffir need work unless he wants to. He settles down on another man’s land, and eats another man’s mealies, and makes pretence of being useful in return. It’s an enviable existence.”
“Oftener he lives by his wife’s exertions,” she said.
“There are white Kaffirs who do that,” he rejoined—“plenty of them across the water. I don’t fancy civilisation can reproach him there. I rather like the coloured man. Do you?”
“Custom is everything; I’m used to him,” she said. “I’m South African, you know—born in the Colony. I have never been home.”