Just then we met the stately Miss Inez returning from the store, carrying some articles in a basket, soap, I think, and tea in a packet, amongst them. I told Hans to take the basket and bear it to the house for her. He went off with it and, walking slowly, we fell into conversation.
“Your father must do very well here,” I said, nodding at the store with the crowd of natives round it.
“Yes,” she answered, “he makes much money which he puts in a bank at the coast, for living costs us nothing and there is great profit in what he buys and sells, also in the crops he grows and in the cattle. But,” she added pathetically, “what is the use of money in a place like this?”
“You can get things with it,” I answered vaguely.
“That is what my father says, but what does he get? Strong stuff to drink; dresses for those women down there, and sometimes pearls, jewels and other things for me which I do not want. I have a box full of them set in ugly gold, or loose which I cannot use, and if I put them on, who is there to see them? That clever half-breed, Thomaso—for he is clever in his way, faithful too—or the women down there—no one else.”
“You do not seem to be happy, Miss Inez.”
“No. I cannot tell how unhappy others are, who have met none, but sometimes I think that I must be the most miserable woman in the world.”
“Oh! no,” I replied cheerfully, “plenty are worse off.”
“Then, Mr. Quatermain, it must be because they cannot feel. Did you ever have a father whom you loved?”
“Yes, Miss Inez. He is dead, but he was a very good man, a kind of saint. Ask my servant, the little Hottentot Hans; he will tell you about him.”