"Swear-words won't help your cause, be sure of that," observed Mayne drily. "English girls aren't going to be won that way."
"Think I'd say words like that to her?"
"More than probably. Well, good-night! I'm due at the Mission; not coming, are you?"
"No," breathed Bert, and said no more; for his eyes were fixed upon a little shadowy figure, moving under the shadow of the stoep.
Mayne saw it too, and walked quietly away.
CHAPTER II
MILLIE
"The world was right when it called you thin."
—ROBERT BROWNING.
The sun had dropped, as the red billiard ball slips into the pocket, suddenly behind the heaving mass of veldt. Darkness was advancing with tropical, seven-leagued stride, and all things were grey.
The pale figure detached itself from the shadows, and resolved itself into the advancing form of a frail, undeveloped girl of fifteen or sixteen. A strange eye would have been lost in wonder, at the first glance, as to what Bert Mestaer could see here, on which to fix his turbulent affections.