“Of course you can please yourself, Mr. Markham,” she said, with a coldness that was meant to appal him.
“And I trust that I may never be led to do so at the expense of another,” he remarked.
“Then you will come in our coach?” she cried, brightening up.
“Pray do not descend to particulars when we are talking in this vague way on broad matters of sentiment, Miss Vincent.”
“But I must know what you intend to do at once.”
“At once? I intend to go ashore, and try if it is possible to get a dinner worth eating. After that—well, this is Tuesday, and on Thursday week your entertainment will take place; before that day you say you want three rehearsals, then I will agree to be by your side at Pietermaritzburg on Saturday next.”
This business-like arrangement was not what Lottie on leaving Cape Town had meant to be the result of the voyage to Natal. There was a slight pause before she asked:
“What do you mean by treating me in this way? I always thought you were my friend. What will papa say if you leave me to go up there alone?”
This was a very daring bit of dialogue on the part of Miss Lottie, but they were nearing the quay where she knew Oswin would be free; aboard the mail steamer of course he was—well, scarcely free. But Mr. Markham was one of those men who are least discomfited by a daring stroke. He looked steadfastly at the girl so soon as she uttered her words.
“The problem is too interesting to be allowed to pass, Miss Vincent,” he said. “We shall do our best to have it answered. By Jove, doesn't that man on the quay look like Harwood? It is Harwood indeed, and I thought him among the Zulus.”