“The result?” queried Kinnaird, with a puzzled air. “A battalion of thick-headed niggers with some slight knowledge of civilized drill, and, perhaps, a few stockades blown up in the bush.”
Then, as he saw the half-veiled amusement in her eyes, a light seemed to break in on him.
“If one managed the thing efficiently, it would, perhaps, lead to the offer of a second-rate semi-administrative post somewhere else in the tropics, though I believe the emoluments are not what one could call liberal.”
“That is all?”
“Yes,” said Kinnaird. “I’m afraid one couldn’t expect anything further.”
Ida smiled rather curiously. She liked the man, but it was clear that his mental capacity had its limits. Though she would not have had him expatiate on the fact, she had expected him to realize that his mission was to uphold the white man’s supremacy, and establish tranquillity, commerce and civilization in a barbarous land. It was, however, evident that he did not understand this. He was going out, as he said, to drill thick-headed niggers, and would, in all probability, content himself with doing that.
Then he turned toward her again.
“What it leads to doesn’t matter very much. I’ve been getting away from the point,” he said. “You see, I don’t know whether I’m going at all, at the moment. It depends a good deal on what you have to say to me.”
Ida started a little, though she had expected something of this kind. Still, she recovered her serenity quickly, and in a moment she looked at him inquiringly with calm eyes.
“I didn’t mean to say anything for some while yet, but this thing has forced my hand,” he said. “You see, I must let them know during the next day or two whether I’m going.”