Broomhurst's quick eyes noted the silent momentary clenching of the hands that hung at her side as she stood leaning against the support at the entrance.
“But how stupid of me to give you such a bad impression of the camp—the first evening, too,” Mrs. Drayton exclaimed presently, and her companion mentally commended the admirable composure of her voice.
“Probably you will never notice that it is lonely at all,” she continued, “John likes it here. He is immensely interested in his work, you know. I hope you are too. If you are interested it is all quite right. I think the climate tries me a little. I never used to be stupid—and nervous. Ah, here's John; he's been round to the kitchen-tent, I suppose.”
“Been looking after that fellow cleanin' my gun, my dear,” John explained, shambling towards the deck-chair.
Later, Broomhurst stood at his own tent-door. He looked up at the star-sown sky, and the heavy silence seemed to press upon him like an actual, physical burden.
He took his cigar from between his lips presently and looked at the glowing end reflectively before throwing it away.
“Considering that she has been alone with him here for six months, she has herself very well in hand—very well in hand,” he repeated.
III
It was Sunday morning. John Drayton sat just inside the tent, presumably enjoying his pipe before the heat of the day. His eyes furtively followed his wife as she moved about near him, sometimes passing close to his chair in search of something she had mislaid. There was colour in her cheeks; her eyes, though preoccupied, were bright; there was a lightness and buoyancy in her step which she set to a little dancing air she was humming under her breath.
After a moment or two the song ceased, she began to move slowly, sedately; and as if chilled by a raw breath of air, the light faded from her eyes, which she presently turned towards her husband.