“What are you doing at this farm?” I gazed round at it, dissatisfied.
“I board here,” Hilda answered, amused at my crestfallen face. “But, of course, I cannot be idle; so I have found work to do. I ride out on my bicycle to two or three isolated houses about, and give lessons to children in this desolate place, who would otherwise grow up ignorant. It fills my time, and supplies me with something besides myself to think about.”
“And what am I to do?” I cried, oppressed with a sudden sense of helplessness.
She laughed at me outright. “And is this the first moment that that difficulty has occurred to you?” she asked, gaily. “You have hurried all the way from London to Rhodesia without the slightest idea of what you mean to do now you have got here?”
I laughed at myself in turn. “Upon my word, Hilda,” I cried, “I set out to find you. Beyond the desire to find you, I had no plan in my head. That was an end in itself. My thoughts went no farther.”
She gazed at me half saucily. “Then don't you think, sir, the best thing you can do, now you HAVE found me, is—to turn back and go home again?”
“I am a man,” I said, promptly, taking a firm stand. “And you are a judge of character. If you really mean to tell me you think THAT likely—well, I shall have a lower opinion of your insight into men than I have been accustomed to harbour.”
Her smile was not wholly without a touch of triumph.
“In that case,” she went on, “I suppose the only alternative is for you to remain here.”
“That would appear to be logic,” I replied. “But what can I do? Set up in practice?”