I don't see the necessity." Clive shamelessly plagiarized Wilde,
Plato, or the holy prophets when it suited her.

"Vot, you know! You can't do pizness with a womans!" The dealer would
weep tears of blood, but Clive made the bargain.

A week slid past, and April barely noticed its passing. No word came
from the outer world. It was not the custom to read newspapers at
Ho-la-le-la, and all letters were stuffed unopened into a drawer, in
case they might be bills. Close friends were wise enough to
communicate by telegram, or, better still, dump themselves in person
upon the doorstep. The only reason that April had been expected and
fetched was that a "home letter" had heralded the likely advent of Lady
Diana, and given the date and hotel at which she would be staying.
Home letters were never stuffed away unopened.

Late one afternoon, however, there was an unexpected announcement. The
_boch-ma-keer-ie_ bird began to cry in the orchard, and Clive said it
was a surer sign of visitors than any that came from the telegraph
office.

"Tomorrow is Sunday. We'll have visitors, sure as a gun," she
prophesied.

April quailed. She could not bear the peaceful drifting to end, and
wished for no reminder of that outer world where Bellew, the mail-boat
for England, and the dreary task of breaking an old man's heart awaited
her. Sometimes in spite of herself she was obliged to consider these
things, and the considering threw shadows under her eyes and hollowed
her cheeks. Sarle, too, though he was a dream by day, became very real
at night when she should have been dreaming. She knew now that she
could never escape from the memory of him, and the thought that he was
suffering from her silence and defection tortured her. What must he
think of her, slinking guiltily away without a word of explanation or
farewell? Doubtless Kenna would set him right! "Faithful are the
wounds of a friend," she thought bitterly. Better far and braver to
have done the explaining and setting right herself, if only she could
have found some way of releasing herself from the compact of silence
made with Diana and Bellew.

Sunday, morning dawned very perfectly. They were all sleeping on the
stoep, their beds in line against the wall, Clive upon the oak chest,
which her austere self-discipline commanded. At three o'clock, though
a few stars lingered, the sky was already tinting itself with the
lovely lustre of a pink pearl. No sound broke the