least loverlike.
Supposing, just supposing, he’d rescued her from something. But no, they were friends in London, had quarrelled and come together again as so many normal lovers do. Adrienne was puzzled, intrigued and not a little hopeful. Beneath his charm, Stuart hid dynamic vitality. For how long would a woman of Lindsey’s disposition meet his needs?
She fitted one of her own cigarettes into an amber holder and lit it. Tonight, it had looked just a little as though conditions in the Stuart Conlowe household might be deteriorating. The climate or the girl’s nerves were giving her trouble. If Stuart was in love with her he’d pull her through. But was he?
A narrow smile curved the reddened lips. A reluctant, apologetic word in Mrs. Conlowe’s ear would do no harm to herself and might pay dividends. Anyway, it should halt the growing affection for the daughter-in-law.
Next day Lindsey heard from Mrs. MacLellan. After a few conventional paragraphs, the letter finished: “You barely refer to your husband, Lindsey, and I am wondering whether you have encountered more difficulties than you imagined. It breaks my heart to think of you more or less alone in Port Acland and perhaps battling with unknown deeps. I know how difficult it is to write of personal matters, but do please let me help if I can, and remember that if you feel the need of a rest, we shall be so delighted if you will come to us.” For a minute Lindsey cherished a wild notion. She would ask Stuart if, when he had to go north, she might take a train to Cape Town and spend the few days with, the MacLellans. But the very next second she knew she could not approach him with such a request. If Stuart planned a trek to the Congo itself she would go, too, so long as he’d take her.
So the reply she wrote to the kind little woman in Cape Town was as superficial in tone as her previous epistle, and impregnated with a cautious gaiety over trifles. Later, Lindsey was thankful she had belittled her problems to Mrs. MacLellan, for Stuart came home full of a plan to spend a long week end at Groenkops Pass, a famous beauty spot on the Groenkops River, and her heart beat high with anticipation.
“I’ve been there before,” he said, “but not to stay. The river is almost dry at the Pass and there are rondavels set about every half mile among the trees on the steep banks. You hike about and find a spare one, unload your goods, and you’re set, for as long as you like. The chap who owns the rondavels takes a walk round every Sunday morning to collect the rent.”
“What are the rondavels like inside?”
“Just one round room. You’ll be all right . We’ll pack a camp bed for you and plenty of blankets. Think you can manage the food?”
“ Try me!”
He laughed. “It’s only about fifty miles. We’ll leave after lunch on Friday and come back on Monday. You concentrate on food and kitchen goods. We shan’t want much besides shorts and slacks to wear, and I’ll manag e the rest of the kit. Won’t it be grand to get away?” Lindsey ignored the implication of his final remark, and set about compiling a list of the tinned foods they would require. What did one do for bread on such jaunts, and how to prevent butter from turning to oil? Tea, coffee, tinned .milk, condiments—Friday morning she would bake some fresh cakes and put them in a tin — potatoes, tinned meat and vegetables, some bacon: Stuart would enjoy bacon frizzled over a c amp fir e .
All next day, Thursday, Lindsey was happy. In the morning Stuart drove into town to buy the kit, and most of the afternoon he spent trying to fit it into the luggage carrier. They had tea under the mulberry tree and dinn er by lam p li g ht in the back stoep.
When Daniel had cleared away Stuart raised his feet to the stoep wall.
“I forgot to tell, you yesterday that we’re not going alone to Groenkops,” he said, without expression. “The architect I’m using is coming as well, with his wife.
Supposing, just supposing, he’d rescued her from something. But no, they were friends in London, had quarrelled and come together again as so many normal lovers do. Adrienne was puzzled, intrigued and not a little hopeful. Beneath his charm, Stuart hid dynamic vitality. For how long would a woman of Lindsey’s disposition meet his needs?
She fitted one of her own cigarettes into an amber holder and lit it. Tonight, it had looked just a little as though conditions in the Stuart Conlowe household might be deteriorating. The climate or the girl’s nerves were giving her trouble. If Stuart was in love with her he’d pull her through. But was he?
A narrow smile curved the reddened lips. A reluctant, apologetic word in Mrs. Conlowe’s ear would do no harm to herself and might pay dividends. Anyway, it should halt the growing affection for the daughter-in-law.
Next day Lindsey heard from Mrs. MacLellan. After a few conventional paragraphs, the letter finished: “You barely refer to your husband, Lindsey, and I am wondering whether you have encountered more difficulties than you imagined. It breaks my heart to think of you more or less alone in Port Acland and perhaps battling with unknown deeps. I know how difficult it is to write of personal matters, but do please let me help if I can, and remember that if you feel the need of a rest, we shall be so delighted if you will come to us.” For a minute Lindsey cherished a wild notion. She would ask Stuart if, when he had to go north, she might take a train to Cape Town and spend the few days with, the MacLellans. But the very next second she knew she could not approach him with such a request. If Stuart planned a trek to the Congo itself she would go, too, so long as he’d take her.
So the reply she wrote to the kind little woman in Cape Town was as superficial in tone as her previous epistle, and impregnated with a cautious gaiety over trifles. Later, Lindsey was thankful she had belittled her problems to Mrs. MacLellan, for Stuart came home full of a plan to spend a long week end at Groenkops Pass, a famous beauty spot on the Groenkops River, and her heart beat high with anticipation.
“I’ve been there before,” he said, “but not to stay. The river is almost dry at the Pass and there are rondavels set about every half mile among the trees on the steep banks. You hike about and find a spare one, unload your goods, and you’re set, for as long as you like. The chap who owns the rondavels takes a walk round every Sunday morning to collect the rent.”
“What are the rondavels like inside?”
“Just one round room. You’ll be all right . We’ll pack a camp bed for you and plenty of blankets. Think you can manage the food?”
“ Try me!”
He laughed. “It’s only about fifty miles. We’ll leave after lunch on Friday and come back on Monday. You concentrate on food and kitchen goods. We shan’t want much besides shorts and slacks to wear, and I’ll manag e the rest of the kit. Won’t it be grand to get away?” Lindsey ignored the implication of his final remark, and set about compiling a list of the tinned foods they would require. What did one do for bread on such jaunts, and how to prevent butter from turning to oil? Tea, coffee, tinned .milk, condiments—Friday morning she would bake some fresh cakes and put them in a tin — potatoes, tinned meat and vegetables, some bacon: Stuart would enjoy bacon frizzled over a c amp fir e .
All next day, Thursday, Lindsey was happy. In the morning Stuart drove into town to buy the kit, and most of the afternoon he spent trying to fit it into the luggage carrier. They had tea under the mulberry tree and dinn er by lam p li g ht in the back stoep.
When Daniel had cleared away Stuart raised his feet to the stoep wall.
“I forgot to tell, you yesterday that we’re not going alone to Groenkops,” he said, without expression. “The architect I’m using is coming as well, with his wife.
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