"What part of Africa?" asked Peter.
"Basutoland, padre. Not a bad place in a way—decent climate, topping scenery, but rather a stodgy crowd in the camps. One or two decent people, but the majority mid-Victorian, without a blessed notion except the price of mealies, who quarrel about nothing half the time, and talk tuppenny-ha'penny scandal the rest. Good Lord! I wish we had some of the perishers out here. But they know which side of the bread the butter is. Bad time for trade, they say, and every other trader has bought a car since the war. Of course, there's something to be said for the other side, but what gets my goat is their pettiness. I'm for British East Africa after the war. There's a chap written a novel about Basutoland called 'The Land of To-morrow,' but I'd call it 'The Land of the Day before Yesterday.' I suppose some of them came over with an assortment of ideas one time, but they've struck no new ones since. I don't advise you to settle in a South African dorp if you can help it, padre."
"Don't suppose I shall," said Peter. "I've just got engaged, and my girl's people wouldn't let her out of England."
"Engaged, are you? Thank your stars you aren't married. It's safer not to be out here."
"Why?"
Donovan looked at him curiously. "Oh, you'll find out fast enough, padre," he said. "Wonder what you'll make of it. Rum place just now, France, I can tell you. There's the sweepings of half the world over there, and everything's turned upside down. Fellows are out for a spree, of course, and you can't be hard on a chap down from the line if he goes on the bust a bit. It's human nature, and you must allow for it; don't you think so?"
"Human nature can be controlled," said Peter primly.
"Can it?" retorted the other. "Even the cloth doesn't find it too easy, apparently."
"What do you mean?" demanded Peter, and then added: "Don't mind telling me; I really want to know."
Donovan knocked out his pipe, and evaded. "You've got to be broad-minded, padre," he said.