“I ought to have come sooner; and I wanted to, but—Femke, I was afraid.”
He related to her how he had been near her on Sunday. The girl attributed his timidity to his diffidence toward her mother.
“My mother is a good woman. She wouldn’t hurt anybody, but—you understand. She doesn’t mix with people much. I understand the world better, because, you see, I was a nurse for three weeks. I was only substituting; I was too young to be a real nurse. It was at a relation’s of ours, where the girl was sick. You know we really come of a good family. But that makes no difference. Tell me, are you well and strong again?”
Walter told her now all about his sickness, and soon he came involuntarily to the thing that gave him most trouble, his defective knowledge.
“All the children know French; but at our school it isn’t taught. It’s impossible to be a great man without knowing French.”
Walter had difficulty in explaining to her that he meant something other than the possession of three houses, though that might not be bad.
“I should like—you understand? I should like—yes—I should like—how shall I explain?”
The sovereignty of Africa was on the end of his tongue; but he didn’t have the courage to put his dreams into words.
“You know, Femke, that we live here in Europe. Now, down there in the south, far away—I will draw it for you. We can sit down here and I will show you exactly what I mean.”
He selected some small sticks suitable for making outlines on the ground, then he and Femke sat down on a low pile of boards. He proceeded to scratch up the sand for some distance around.