“I don’t know much. I met him by accident—he has an interest in some mines, I believe, but he struck me as a remarkably fine type. Clever at woodcraft, as handy with the ax and paddle as our professional guide, but when he talked about other things he seemed to know a good deal more than I do.” He smiled. “After all, that’s not surprising. But what I liked most was the earnestness of the fellow; he had a downright way of grappling with things, or explaining them to you. Sensible, but direct, not subtle.”
“I’ve met men of that description, and I’m rather prejudiced in their favor,” declared Millicent, smiling. “But what was he like in person—slightly rugged?”
“No; that’s where you and others sometimes go wrong. There’s nothing of the barbarian about these bushmen. Physically, they’re as fine a type as we are—I might go farther—straight in the limb, clean-lined every way, square in the shoulder. They’d make an impression at any London gathering.”
“So long as they didn’t speak?”
“It wouldn’t matter. Allowing for a few colloquialisms, they’re worth listening to; which is more than I’d care to say for a number of the people one meets in this country.”
Millicent laughed.
“Well, I’ll be glad to see him when he comes.” Her voice grew graver. “I feel grateful to him already for what he told you about George.”
They went in together and half an hour later Nasmyth walked home across the moor. He had never thought more highly of Millicent, but somehow he now felt sorry for her. It scarcely seemed fitting that she should live in that lonely spot with only the company of an elderly and staid companion, though he hardly thought she would be happier if she plunged into a round of purposeless amusements in the cities. Still, she was young and very attractive; he felt that she should have more than the thinly-peopled countryside had to offer.