When Honor appeared on the stoep the next morning, dressed for the ride and carrying the early cup of coffee, the horses were saddled and waiting below the stoep, and Matheson stood in the path beside them doing something to his stirrup leather. He left what he was doing and came up the steps and joined her.
“That’s too bad,” she cried; “you’ve done all the work this morning.”
“No,” he contradicted, taking the cup from her hand. “You made the coffee. I call that sharing. But I have been waiting a good while.”
“It’s early though,” she said, and looked beyond the aloe fence to where the dew spread its silvery cobwebbed veil along the ground.
“Yes; it’s early.”
He drank the coffee slowly, standing beside her watching the soft colour deepening her clear skin, and the look of pleased expectancy shining in her eyes. He wondered whether she too knew the satisfaction which he was feeling in anticipation of their uncompanioned ride? It was not possible that she felt it in the same degree.
He put down the empty cup and assisted her to mount.
“Which direction do we take to-day?” he asked. “Last time we rode to the south.”
“So you remember?” She looked up, smiling, “There isn’t any choice to-day. I have a letter to carry for Andreas to Cornelius Nel. The Nels’ farm is about five miles from here. You will see it when we top the rise.”
“Isn’t it somewhat early for making calls?” he asked.