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Mrs. Drayton’s hand shook a little as she fluttered a page of her open book.

“I should think it quite natural you would be irritated beyond endurance to hear that all’s right with the world, for instance, when you were sighing for the long day to pass,” he continued.

“I don’t mind the day so much; it’s the evenings.” She abruptly checked the swift words, and flushed painfully. “I mean–I’ve grown stupidly nervous, I think–even when John is here. Oh, you have no idea of the awful /silence/ of this place at night,” she added, rising hurriedly from her low seat, and moving closer to the doorway. “It is so close, isn’t it?” she said, almost apologetically. There was silence for quite a minute.

Broomhurst’s quick eyes noted the silent momentary clinching 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 toward 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.

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 toward her husband.

“Why do you look at me?” she asked, suddenly.

“I don’t know, my dear,” he began slowly and laboriously, as was his wont. “I was thinkin’ how nice you looked–jest now–much better, you know; but somehow,”–he was taking long whiffs at his pipe, as usual, between each word, while she stood patiently waiting for him to finish,–“somehow, you alter so, my dear–you’re quite pale again, all of a minute.”

She stood listening to him, noticing against her will the more than suspicion of cockney accent and the thick drawl with which the words were uttered.

His eyes sought her face piteously. She noticed that too, and stood before him torn by conflicting emotions, pity and disgust struggling in a hand-to-hand fight within her.

“Mr. Broomhurst and I are going down by the well to sit; it’s cooler there. Won’t you come?” she said at last, gently.

He did not reply for a moment; then he turned his head aside, sharply for him.

“No, my dear, thank you; I’m comfortable enough here,” he returned, huskily.

She stood over him, hesitating a second; then moved abruptly to the table, from which she took a book.

He had risen from his seat by the time she turned to go out, and he intercepted her timorously.