of his astonishment at this strange
and sudden intimacy of hers with Bellew. Still, what was the use of
caring? There were worse hurts in store for him, if, indeed, they met
again as he predicted. She bit on the bullet and ignored the pain at
her heart. Bellew did not waste any small talk on her; that was one
comfort. He seemed to be more concerned about his luggage than about
her, shouting out to the coloured men to be careful and to remove
nothing from the van without his direction. At the Customs House, in
fact, all his stuff was left assiduously alone. April's was opened and
gone through rapidly by the officials; but the production of his papers
and credentials as an attache to the Governor of Zambeke, or some such
outlandish place, gave Bellew instant immunity, and no single article
of his belongings was unlocked. Within a few moments they were again
_en route_ for their hotel.

Their way took them by the main thoroughfare of the town, and April was
astonished at the numbers of people flocking on the pavements, filling
trams and rickshaws, drinking tea on the overhanging balconies and
restaurants. The air was sunny, yet with the fresh bite of the sea in
it, and everyone seemed gay and careless. The whole of one side of the
wide street was lined by Malays and natives offering flowers for sale.
In front of the Bank a sort of floral bazaar was established, the
bright head "dookies," silver bangles, and glowing dark eyes of the
vendors making a brave show above the massed glory of colour in their
baskets. Huge bunches of pink proteas, spiked lilies of every hue,
bales of heather and waxen white chinckerichees filled the air with
heavy perfume. The sellers came pressing to the passing carriages,
soliciting custom in the soft clipped speech of the Cape native.
Bellew, for all he was so distrait, had the graceful inspiration to
stop and take on a load of colour and perfume, and April for a moment
lost count of her troubles in sheer joy of the senses.

"But where do they come from?" she cried. "I have never seen such
flowers in the world."

"There _are_ no flowers in the world like those from Table Mountain,"
he said.

"That old bleak beast?" She gazed in astonishment at the grey mass
still hovering above and about them. "She looks as though nothing
would grow on her gaunt sides except sharp flints."

Bellew laughed.

"Those gaunt sides are covered with beauty, and hundreds of people make
their livi