There was something so engagingly naive in this compliment that Sylvia found it impossible to be formal.  She smiled and slipped to the ground.

“You are Mr. Merston,” she said.  “How kind of you to come over!  I am afraid I am alone at present, but Burke is sure to be in soon.  I hope you have had some refreshment.”

She gave her horse to a Kaffir boy, and went with her new friend up the steps of the stoep.

“My wife!” said Merston in his jolly voice.

Sylvia went forward with an eagerness that wilted in spite of her before she reached its object.  Mrs. Merston did not rise to meet her.  She sat prim and upright and waited for her greeting, and Sylvia knew in a moment before their hands touched each other that here was no kindred spirit.

“How do you do?” said Mrs. Merston formally.

She was a little woman, possibly ten years Sylvia’s senior, with a face that had once been pink and white and now was the colour of pale brick all over.  Her eyes were pale and seemed to carry a perpetual grievance.  Her nose was straight and very thin, rather pinched at the nostrils.  Her lips were thin and took a bitter downward curve.  Her hair was quite colourless, almost like ashes; it had evidently once been light gold.

The hand she extended to Sylvia was so thin that she thought she could feel the bones rubbing together.  Her skin was hot and very dry.

“I hope you like this horrible country,” she said.

“Oh, come, Matilda!” her husband protested.

“That’s not a very cheery greeting for a newcomer!”

She closed her thin lips without reply, and the downward curve became very unpleasantly apparent.

“I haven’t found out all its horrors yet,” said Sylvia lightly.  “It’s a very thirsty place, I think, anyway just now.  Have you had anything?”

“We’ve only just got here,” said Merston.

“Oh, I must see to it!” said Sylvia, and hastened within.

“Looks a jolly sort of girl,” observed Merston to his wife.  “Wonder how—­and when—­Burke managed to catch her.  He hasn’t been home for ten years and she can’t be five-and-twenty.”

“She probably did the catching,” remarked his wife tersely.  “But she will soon wish she hadn’t.”

Sylvia returned two minutes later bearing a tray of which Merston hastened to relieve her.

“We’re wondering—­my wife and I—­how Burke had the good fortune to get married to you,” he said.  “You’re new to this country, aren’t you?  And he hasn’t been out of it as long as I have known him.”

Sylvia looked up at him in momentary confusion.  Then she laughed.

“We picked each other up at Ritzen,” she said.

“Ritzen!” he echoed in amazement, “What on earth took you there?” Then hastily, “I say, I beg your pardon.  You must forgive my impertinence.  But you look so awfully like a duchess in your own right, I couldn’t help being surprised.”