His slimness and his white kanju made him look taller than he really was, and his grave restrained manner lent him an aloofness which was probably absent from his simple heart. Now he lingered in the room soundlessly creating an impression, as native courtesy directs, that there was something more to be said.
'What is it, Changalilo?' asked Norah.
'Io, mwkai—nothing, mistress,' came the disclaimer imposed by good form on any speaker with news to impart.
Further interrogation elicited the fact that the sukambali, a lad of fourteen who hewed wood, drew water, and washed plates, stated that his father was ill, and that he wanted to go to his village.
'Is it true?' asked Norah.
Changalilo's silence indicated scepticism.
'In any case, he cannot start to-night,' she decided.
This was just her luck, with a guest in the house. She supposed she would have to let the little beast go, and of course another sukambali would appear in a day or two, but work in the kitchen would be completely disorganised. Unless she cooked with her own hands, food would be uneatable. How she hated housewifery. She had to do it, though. Archie took over the whole work of the farm, and the house fell to her share.
Her days seemed a round of ignoble detail—thwarting the table-boy's appetite for sugar, driving the sukambali to wash the saucepans before they were used, giving out paraffin, and watching that it was not stolen from the lamps. That's what pioneering meant. Well, she must stick it now. She promised Changalilo she would interview the sukambali on the morrow, and dismissed him. There was a sound of inharmonious humming outside, and Archie entered. He was in good spirits, his day's work done, and his visitor bestowed for the moment in the guest house. Norah, forcing a smile, inquired dutifully after the farm.
'Wasted most of the day listening to Jones' rubbish,' was the reply. 'He knows more about elephant than cattle. I hope so, anyhow. Telling me how to control the sex of calves. Pure superstition, of course. His theory is that...' But Norah was not listening. Her gaze wandered from a patch in the bulging wall, where the stakes showed through the dull red mud, to the sagging thatch of the ceilingless roof, whence insects were liable to drop. Her mind contrasted this unromantic squalor with the spacious poverty of her own home, and with the splendour of her London days, exaggerated, no doubt, across the two-year gap of barren makeshift. Bravely, she forced the picture out of her mind and bent her attention to Archie's monosyllabic conversation.