"No." He looked at her a moment, about to say something else; then changed his mind, and looked out of the window in silence. Leaning up against the lintel, in the softened light, her outline and features and deep, true eyes made too fair a picture for him to trust himself to look upon.
"Perhaps you will be coming to Johannesburg presently?"
"I think not."
"Nor England?..." with a little wistful smile.
"Nor England."
"You speak almost as if you never expected to go there again?"
"I shall never go there again."
There was a pause; then she continued:
"Yet you are so absolutely an Englishman, and they say"—with another little smile—"an Englishman always wants to go home to be buried."
"I am more a Rhodesian."