“Did you not enjoy his company, Mr Ansley? I think him so entertaining and instructive,” she added demurely.
“Oh yes, indeed!” he answered hastily; “but I mean, I think he knows too much for me. You see, I don’t quite follow his theories—at least, some of them.”
“What a prettily—inferred compliment, Mr Ansley!” and, making him a mock-curtsey, she added, “Then you think I am sufficiently stupid to be entertaining?”
“Quite so, Miss Hardy—more of my own calibre, you know,” he returned, laughing.
“Thank you for that, too. My friend, you have a ready wit, and have got out of it better than you deserved; and, though you don’t merit it, I mean to show you the river this evening—that is, if you are quite sure that you wouldn’t prefer listening to Mr Whitton.”
“Well, Miss Hardy, I could devote a lifetime to agriculture, but the passion of my life is certainly exploring. Your descriptions have so fired my soul with enthusiasm and ambition that I am afraid I shouldn’t die happy if I didn’t know the geography of this part of the river. In the cause of science, let us go.”
The girl answered gravely:
“In the cause of science, we shall go.”
The evening was one of those stilly, cool summer evenings so common in South Africa, when the night seems full of still life; the moonlight, strong and clear, has nothing sombre in it, and the gentlest of cool breezes plays through the leaves, bearing along with it the commingled scents of all the blossoms.
As they walked down the gravelled path through the orange-groves the crickets sang merrily all around, and from the river came the sound of the frogs—that most curious of all evening sounds. From the house it sounded like one monotonous roar, but as one drew nearer the river the individual voices could be distinguished, and every note on the gamut was given by that orchestra. Now and again, without any apparent reason, the music would suddenly cease and a dead silence ensue; and then, doubtless at a signal from the conductor, the whole band would strike up again.