“What are you doing at this farm?” I gazed round at it, dissatisfied.

“I board here,” Hilda answered, amused at my crestfallen face.  “But, of course, I cannot be idle; so I have found work to do.  I ride out on my bicycle to two or three isolated houses about, and give lessons to children in this desolate place, who would otherwise grow up ignorant.  It fills my time, and supplies me with something besides myself to think about.”

“And what am I to do?” I cried, oppressed with a sudden sense of helplessness.

She laughed at me outright.  “And is this the first moment that that difficulty has occurred to you?” she asked, gaily.  “You have hurried all the way from London to Rhodesia without the slightest idea of what you mean to do now you have got here?”

I laughed at myself in turn.  “Upon my word, Hilda,” I cried, “I set out to find you.  Beyond the desire to find you, I had no plan in my head.  That was an end in itself.  My thoughts went no farther.”

She gazed at me half saucily.  “Then don’t you think, sir, the best thing you can do, now you have found me, is—­to turn back and go home again?”

“I am a man,” I said, promptly, taking a firm stand.  “And you are a judge of character.  If you really mean to tell me you think that likely—­well, I shall have a lower opinion of your insight into men than I have been accustomed to harbour.”

Her smile was not wholly without a touch of triumph.

“In that case,” she went on, “I suppose the only alternative is for you to remain here.”

“That would appear to be logic,” I replied.  “But what can I do?  Set up in practice?”

“I don’t see much opening,” she answered.  “If you ask my advice, I should say there is only one thing to be done in Rhodesia just now—­ turn farmer.”

“It is done,” I answered, with my usual impetuosity.  “Since you say the word, I am a farmer already.  I feel an interest in oats that is simply absorbing.  What steps ought I to take first in my present condition?”

She looked at me, all brown with the dust of my long ride.  “I would suggest,” she said slowly, “a good wash, and some dinner.”

“Hilda,” I cried, surveying my boots, or what was visible of them, “that is really clever of you.  A wash and some dinner!  So practical, so timely!  The very thing!  I will see to it.”

Before night fell, I had arranged everything.  I was to buy the next farm from the owner of the one where Hilda lodged; I was also to learn the rudiments of South African agriculture from him for a valuable consideration; and I was to lodge in his house while my own was building.  He gave me his views on the cultivation of oats.  He gave them at some length—­more length than perspicuity.  I knew nothing about oats, save that they were employed in the manufacture of porridge—­which I detest; but I was to be near Hilda once more, and I was prepared to undertake the superintendence of the oat from its birth to its reaping if only I might be allowed to live so close to Hilda.