"Cazi Moto, where is my chair?" Kingozi demanded, abruptly conscious that the chop box was not very comfortable.
"Bibi-ya-chui has it."
"Where is she?"
"Right behind you," came that young woman's voice in amused tones. "You have been so busy that you have not seen me."
Kingozi turned. The chair had been placed in a bare spot close to the trunk of the great tree. He grinned cheerfully.
"I was pretty hungry," he confessed, "and I don't believe I saw a single thing but that curry!"
"Naturally. It is not to be wondered at. Are you all rested?"
"I'm quite fit, thanks. And you?"
She was still in her marching costume; but her hair had been smoothed, her face washed. The colour had come back to her lips, the light to her expression. Only a faint dark encircling of the eyes, and a certain graceful languor of attitude recalled the collapse of yesterday.
"Oh, I am all right; but perishing for a cigarette. Have you one?"