"He will soon return," she thinks. "It is growing late, and he promised to be home before nightfall."
She goes out on to the verandah, gazing down the road which leads to Mandalay.
Two or three black children are resting by a wall at the foot of the hill, one squatting on the ground hugging his knees, the others standing in easy graceful attitudes, with round pitchers on their heads.
The well is beneath a huge palm. Eleanor has sometimes "wished" by it with Carol, pretending there is some mystic spell in the water.
He will pass that charmed spot as he returns, and she will stand on the steps to greet him.
Surely in all the world Carol could not have chosen a more romantic retreat in which to live and love!
The shadows deepen, they take forms, and glide from place to place as daylight dies.
She peers into the gloom, the children go home to bed. Carol is not in sight!
The red flowers of the morning lie withered up and brown on the floor where she has left them. Carol must not be greeted by the sight of her negligence. She stoops down, and gathers them together in both hands, sweeping the dust and fallen petals into her white palm. Crossing slowly to the door, Eleanor calls Quamina.
"Take these away," she says.