“I generally avoid any discussions of that kind. They never lead to anything,” he said. “I was wondering whether you could learn to like London as well as Montreal?”
“I don’t know,” replied Ida, in her most matter-of-fact manner.
“Oh,” said her companion, “it seems a senseless question, but I want to explain. I have been offered an opportunity to go away—to do something—very soon. I should be away two years, at least; and as the notice is a short one, I have practically to make up my mind to-night.”
It almost appeared that he had expected Ida to show some sign of interest, or, perhaps, concern, but none was perceptible.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To a colony in tropical Africa. They want somebody to hammer a native levy into shape and keep the niggers in some kind of order.”
“Don’t they have fever there?”
“I believe it isn’t a particularly salubrious place,” said Kinnaird, smiling, “but that kind of thing affects only some constitutions, and it makes promotion quicker.”
Ida, who had perused a good many works of travel, knew a little about the fevers that afflict the country in question. In fact, she fancied that she knew more than the man did; but his careless indifference to the personal hazard pleased her. She noticed that he had spoken naturally, as he felt, without any idea of producing an effect on her.
“What is the result of that kind of work?” she asked.