The curtain was thrust aside, and to Turners astonishment, a girl’s face peered round it. A beautiful girl’s face too, the like of which he had not seen for many a year, if indeed, he had ever seen one like it before; a face with oval, liquid dark eyes in whose depths a light lay hidden, with full red pouting lips, and a broad low brow half hidden by heavy masses of dark, untidy hair, which fell in picturesque confusion over it. A beautiful face in shape and form, and rich dark colouring, and Turner started back too astonished to speak. Such a face! Never in all his life had he seen such a face, and the look turned on his companion was easy enough to read.
“Come here, Kitty,” said Stanesby in an unconcerned voice. “I want some dinner for this gentleman.”
Then she stepped out, and the illusion vanished. For she was only a half-caste, beautiful as a dream, or he who had not seen a woman for many a long day—he never counted the black gins women—thought so, but only a despised half-caste, outcast both from father’s and mother’s race.
Not that she looked unhappy. On the contrary, she came forward and smiled on him a slow, lazy smile, the smile of one who is utterly contented with her lot in life.
“Whew! So that ‘s our hutkeeper, is it?”
“Dinner, Kitty.”
The girl took a tin dish from the shelf and went outside. She walked well and gracefully, and Turner followed her with his eyes.
“By Jove!” he said, “talk about good looks. Why, Dick, you—”
“Hang it all, man,” said Stanesby. “I know well enough what you ‘re thinking. The girl is good-looking, I suppose, for a half-caste. The boss’s sister, old Miss Howard, found her among the tribe, a wild little wretch, and took her in and did her best to civilise her; but it wasn’t easy work, and the old lady died before it was done.”
“And you ‘re completing the job?”