Mayenga Farm by Kathryn Blair

would see them but he'd be stumped for the meaning."
    "Pride and Sorrow," she said interestedly.
    "You see! It took me all of a week to label them and you did it in a few seconds, and fewer words. The feminine touch." He paused while an ebony-skinned boy in white set the coffee tray on another table, and placed cigarettes and an automatic table lighter conveniently near. "All right, Tanu. If the kitchen is clear you may go to bed."
    To Rennie he said, "Will you pour the coffee? Sugar and cream for me."
    Rennie sat at the table and Kent ranged across to the desk and back again. Even in this spacious lounge he was big and compelling. He took his cup and lowered himself to the chesterfield, where he lay back, regarding her quizzically.
    "I'm not sure that this isn't pleasanter than having your father and the fair young journalist along. It’s some time since I had a woman so entirely at my mercy. Aren’t you afraid?"
    "Should I be?"
    "Unflattering to me if you’re not."
    "Not at all. What has a girl to fear from a self-confessed woman-hater?"
    He did not contradict the statement, but stirred his coffee with some deliberation. "I might decide that this is an excellent opportunity for teaching you — and all women — a lesson. Hate’s a strong word, don’t you think?" he tacked on.
    "To hate women as a whole might mean that I had once loved one to distraction and been ignominiously jilted. Nothing so soul-rending ever came my way, the stars be praised!"
    "You might be less of a cynic if it had," she countered. "Everyone needs to have someone else to share delights with and worry about. That's half the joy of living. People who avoid love miss the best in life."
    "Is that so?" As though giving this challenge all the attention it deserved, Kent thoughtfully sipped his coffee, stared into it, and sipped again. But his tone mocked as he queried, "What's your advice? Shall I look round for a little woman to cherish and fuss over? Can you imagine me as an adoring husband?"
    "No," she said flatly. "I can't. You may marry, but I don't believe you’ll ever let yourself fall in love."
    His lazy eyes sharpened. He emptied the cup and rather forcefully placed it on the wide arm of the chesterfield.
    "That's straight from the shoulder, at any rate," he said tersely, "I like your candor, Rennie; it gets under the skin — well under, like a hypodermic needle. So you've decided that I shall marry but will never be devoured by love. I'm to be spared the tortures of white-hot passion. What a relief!"
    His smile was tight but otherwise inexpressive as he leaned forward to slip back the lid of the cigarette box. Rennie knew that somehow she had flicked his ego. Had she unwittingly hinted at new, perilous feelings? Was he already in love . . . with Jackie?
    And then she noticed the faint but unmistakable depression of his scar and a pulse began to knock in her temple. Her hands were
    unsteady as she took a cigarette and held it to the lighter while he worked the catch, and she was grateful for the veil of smoke which momentarily obscured him. For a few minutes they smoked in silence.
    "I saw this morning that you’re clearing the cotton," he said offhandedly. "You’re wise to do it so thoroughly. What are you going to do with the land?"
    Thankful for the change of topic, even to such a sore one, she answered, "Leave it to recuperate."
    "Will you let me plant it with citrus for you as soon as it’s healthy ?"
    She pressed out the half-smoked cigarette. "We’re not enlarging our commitments till after the harvest."
    "So it’s no thanks — again. How I abominate your childish independence. Where does it get you?"
    She was torn by the need to make him understand, once and for all. "Can’t you see how it is?" she cried. "My father’s entirely out of place here — you know that. If the harvest is only reasonably good he'll be able to make the lecture tour that he's set his heart on, and be really happy. That's why I won't run up