and Turner mentally
appraising the girl before him, quite approved her taste. The dress was
old and somewhat faded, but its severe simplicity and its dull tints
just set off the girl's dusky beauty. Shoes and stockings she had
none, but what matter? any touch of civilisation would have spoiled the
picture.

Stanesby apparently took no notice of her, but began to read extracts
from his letters and papers for his companion's benefit. He was hardly
at his ease, and Turner made only a pretence of listening. He could not
take his eyes from the girl who was roughly setting out the table for
their meal. "The temper of a fiend," truly he thought it not unlikely,
judging by the glances she threw at him whenever she took her eyes
from Stanesby. She could hardly have understood what he read, but she
listened intently and cast angry glances every now and then on Turner.
He and these letters, she seemed to feel, were not of her world, they
were taking this man away from her. Yes, he could well believe she had
the temper of a fiend. But she said nothing. Her mother had come of a
race which from time immemorial had held its women in bondage, and
she spoke no word, probably she had no words in which to express her
feelings.

The table was laid at last, and a piece of smoking salt beef and a great
round damper brought in from outside and put on it.

"Dinner," said the girl sullenly, but Stanesby went on reading, and paid
no attention, and Turner felt himself watching to see what would happen
next. He caught only snatches of the letter, just enough to know it was
a description of a hunt in England, of a damp, cold, cloudy day, of an
invigorating run--the contrast struck him forcibly--the stifling, hot
little hut, and the jealous, half-savage woman standing there, her eyes
aflame with anger at the slight she fancied was put upon her.

She stole over and touched Stanesby lightly on the arm, but he shook her
off as he would a fly and went on reading calmly.

The other man watched the storm gather on her face. She stood for one
moment looking, not at Stanesby but at him; it was very evident whom she
blamed for her lover's indifference; then she stretched across to the
table and caught up a knife. Her breath was coming thick and fast and
Turner never took his eyes off her, in between her gasping breath he
heard his friend's voice, slow and deliberate as ever, still telling the
tale of the English hunting day, still reading the letter whi