"And the women?"
"There is not much for the women, but the plucky ones are often heroines."
"Only no one tells them so?"
"No one tells them so; therein lies the heroism."
"I see. They put up a good fight, and no one says, 'Well done!' Isn't it the same with the men?"
"The men get many compensations."
"Compensations that make it worth while?"
"Distinctly."
They rode on in silence, both looking ahead to the blue mountain that guards the north of Zimbabwe. The peaceful loveliness soothed his spirit because he loved it, but in her it awakened a vague, swift ache. She felt somehow that he had a right to love the country, because he had made it his and given it of his best; that, for all his presumable poverty in many things, he was yet so rich in what he had achieved, and in what he had won for himself of interest and usefulness. While for her?... She was an alien, a mere tourist, a looker-on; the daughter of a millionaire who came to Rhodesia for wealth, and gave—how little in return!
He might look at the tender outline of the lovely mountain with the glad, restful consciousness of work well done. She could only look at it with that ache of divine discontent: unplumbed, wordless longing. Even the heroism of the settler's wife was not for her. The women who were plucky enough to put up that good fight, although no one ever said "Well done!" Compared with them, in his eyes she was probably a mere cumberer of the earth; an ornament, intended only to be admired by the leisured classes. The young splendid country had no use for her, no place for her. She was an alien, an interloper; child of a man who came only for gain, and took his gain elsewhere, recognising no claim from a land that was no home to him, only an investment.