“Do you?” she cried, with a sudden eagerness in her voice and manner. Then, “No. You would be disappointed. I am not of your world. But you shall see me again,” she added, as if taking a new resolve. “We are coming back on a big hunt, and you and your father are to join us. Won't you?”
“Dad said we should,” said the youth, smiling at the remembrance.
“And you?” she said, with a touch of impatience.
“If things can so arrange themselves—my work, I mean, and dad's.”
“But, do you want to? Do you really want to?” she asked. “I wish I knew. I hate not to understand people. You are hard to know. I don't know you. But you will come?”
“I think so,” said the young man. “Of course a fellow's work comes first, you know.”
“Work?” she cried. “Your work? Oh, your missionary work. Oh, yes, yes. I should like to see you at it. Come, let us go.”
Mr. Cornwall Brand they found in a fever of impatience. He had the trip scheduled to a time table, and he hated to be forced to change his plans. His impatience showed itself in snappy commands and inquiries to his Indian guides, who, however, merely grunted replies. They knew their job and did it without command or advice, and with complete indifference to anything the white man might have to say. To Paula the only change in his manner was an excess of politeness.
Her father, however, met her with remonstrances.
“Why, Paula, my dear, you have kept us waiting.”