She played tennis during the morning, and played badly; her heart was not in the game, and the careless gaiety of her companions jarred on her sober mood. They rallied her on her preoccupation, until she pleaded a headache; when Sinclair, leaving the others to play singles, led her away to a quiet corner in the garden where she could sit and rest.
He was glad to get her alone. He was leaving on the morrow, going back to his job in a stuffy office in a dull little town.
“Uitenhage is about the sleepiest hole in South Africa,” he grumbled.
“I think it is lovely,” the girl returned. “I went there once when the roses were in bloom.”
“Oh! it’s pretty enough. And it’s handy to the Bay. I shall look you up when you return—may I?”
“I shall be very pleased,” she answered. “But you’ll have to choose a holiday. I am going back to my job too. I teach music.”
“Oh, really! That’s fairly strenuous, I should think. What a bore for you.”
She laughed.
“It’s my bread and butter. There are less pleasant methods of making a livelihood. But of course one gets tired.”
He nodded sympathetically.