"I was a Devonshire man," Carew corrected; "I am a Rhodesian."
Then he turned and with a short good night went back into his hut.
The next morning, directly his official work was finished, he started to ride over to the mission station, where some far-off connections of his, William and Ailsa Grenville, found by chance in the wilderness, lived the simple life with a contentment that surprised all who beheld them.
It was the first visit he had been able to pay for some weeks, and almost before he dismounted a woman stepped out from the large rustic building, with its thatched roof, and came towards him with eagerness and sorrow strangely blended in her eyes.
"Ah, how long you have been coming! I have watched for you ever since we heard the sad news. Billy and I so wanted someone from home to talk to."
"I could not help it. I have been right away into the Ingigi district. How are you?"
He did not give her his hand because the formalities had long been dropped between them, but as he walked beside her to the building his face seemed a shade softer.
"We are both well. We are splendid. But we have felt very cut off these two weeks. England seemed so terribly far away. The evening we heard, Billy and I just sat hand in hand under the stars, dabbing the tears away. Don't smile, it was the only thing to do, and we longed so to be in London." As she talked she passed into the cool shade of the hut and busied herself preparing a lemon squash for him, not needing to ask if it were his choice. "We were miserable for days. I'm sure all of you were too."
"I did not hear until I came back yesterday."
"Ah ... I was afraid so. Of course, that made it worse."