On the morning of their first walk together he came out on to the stoep, stick in hand, ready to start, and found Esmé waiting for him. He returned her greeting unsmilingly, and scrutinised her attentively with brows drawn together above the keen eyes.
“You had better fetch a coat,” he said. “The morning air is chilly.”
“It is fresh,” she agreed; “but I thought perhaps walking—it may be very hot before we return.”
“It probably will be,” he replied. “But I would prefer that you wore a coat. When it gets hot I will carry it for you.”
Smiling, she went inside to follow his instruction. When she came out again she wore a woollen sport’s coat over her thin dress.
“That’s better,” he said. “It is unpleasant to feel cold.”
He walked down the little path beside her and out on to the open road. A pale mist, like a thin white fog, shrouded the prospect and lent a bracing coldness to the air, which felt fresh and clean with the crisp purity of mountain air, washed by the overnight dews. The girl felt the benefit of the extra warmth of the coat; it was fresher than she had supposed out on the open road. A little wind that had more than a touch of sharpness in its breath blew in their faces as they walked.
“I had no idea the mornings were so good,” she said. “I’ve not been out so early before.”
“People miss more than they realise through lying between the sheets,” he said. “In a country like this the bulk of the day’s work should be accomplished before breakfast.”
“Is that the principle you act on?” she asked.