eyes glistened as he sat over his wine, and smoked Transvaal
tobacco in a calabash pipe. He looked much more as he used to
look twenty years back, I thought. I had deemed him aged almost
out of recognition when first we sat down to dinner. He had come
up to Mashonaland with some learned association on a holiday
trip. His name was Gerald Browne; he had lectured on English
literature these many years in an ancient northern university.

With him came his wife, a very plain and quiet lady, and also an
undergraduate pupil named Drayton.

I was asked to meet them, and to stay in the same house with them
by a certain minor potentate of Rosebery, who had had rooms near
Browne's and mine in years gone by. It was Saturday night, and I
had just come in from the veld, while Browne's party had reached
Rosebery by the morning train. Dinner had gone rather quietly,
and our host had looked bored, I thought. Then, when the ladies
had left us, Browne had kindled up, and we all three had a
glorious hour, voicing the praises of Africa in a sort of
three-man descant or glee. Meanwhile the fourth man, Drayton, a
dark, plump and smiling youth, listened to us with a charming air
of respectful attention. Transvaal tobacco was good, and the talk
was good, though I say it who should not. Drayton's silence
was also good, a very complimentary silence with a distinct
character, as it seemed to me. On Sunday after lunch this youth
came for a walk with me, while the Brownes and our host reclined.

'Mr. Browne's got a sort of call to the Simple Life,' he suddenly
blurted out with a grin. 'It's even money on his selling up at
Oxford and coming out here for good. What's going to happen to
Mrs. Browne, I wonder?'

I laughed, as I thought he expected me to do.

'He seems rather smitten,' I admitted. 'He certainly raved a bit
last night; but, then, so many people do that when they first
come out.'

Drayton looked at me as if he might have said much more. But I
changed the subject; it never occurred to me then that it might
be a thrilling one. I went home later on and sat on the stoep and
talked to my host. Browne had very little to say. He went off for
a sunset walk, and never came to church at night. We sat up in
the moonlight waiting for him afterwards. He came in at last and
joined us on the stoep, but he was very silent. He would not have
any supper. He smoked away furiously till bed-time.

I arranged a riding trip for all three visitors next