“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.