"Oh, every one loses their good looks in this desolate place," said Judy. "It is a truly awful country, isn't it, Constance?"

Constance was Mrs Brand, a plump, tan-coloured woman with a silent manner and a leathery skin. She had so far given no sign of life, but she now made a graceful though brief contribution to the conversation.

"Rotten!"

She then beat a spot of dust off her skirt with a riding-crop she held in her hand, stuck out her boots and stared at them. I observed that they were riding-boots of the kind that finish somewhere near the throat, and I thought how very hot and uncomfortable they must be for evening wear. She was evidently eccentric, for my eye mechanically travelling upwards made the further discovery that she was dressed in a riding-habit. Certainly it fitted her as though it had been painted on her. But what an odd garment in which to make an evening call!

It is quite simple for plump women to have well-fitting clothes. All that is necessary is to have the things made tight enough--the plumpness does the rest. But I have noticed that a silent manner nearly always accompanies that kind of good figure. Women who have it do not seem to have any desire to talk, and when they do it is rather crossly--almost as if they had indigestion. They are also very fond of sitting down.

It is the graceful, curvy woman who has a bad time at her dressmaker's, being fitted and fitted and fitted. Personally, I did not own a rag that hadn't cost me hours of weary standing and having pins stuck in me before a mirror.

The behabited lady had transformed the glances of her sulky eyes from her boots to me with such a disagreeable expression in them that I couldn't help thinking how pleasant it would be to tell her these things. In the meantime, Miss Cleeve was speaking again.

"I can't think what anyone wants up here," she said, with an air of the utmost _ennui_. I looked at her keenly, for I had heard her name on my journey up. At that time girls were not plentiful in Mashonaland; in fact, Miss Cleeve had so far enjoyed the distinction of being the only one in the country. People had hinted to me that she would not regard my arrival with ardour, and I couldn't imagine why. Personally, I am fond of other girls, and think them ever so much nicer than married women, who get most frightfully tiresome with their stupid airs of mystery and superiority. Just as though any one couldn't be married if they wanted to! I think it requires far more cleverness in a charming girl to keep unmarried.

Annabel Cleeve had been described to me as "not exactly pretty but extremely fascinating"; and it was further said of her that she could marry almost any man in the country if she wanted to. But as I said before I didn't think _that_ so wonderfully clever.

Her complexion appeared to be pale, dusky, mysterious, everything that is romantic; but she had her back, quite by accident of course, to the rose-red lamp, so it was rather difficult to tell. Only I _have_ known those romantic lamplight complexions to bear in the daylight an extraordinary resemblance to Indian curry. I couldn't see her eyes very well, but I afterwards discovered that they were a pretty though rather cold grey. It was a pity that she always kept them half closed, for it gave her a rather _blase_ air. Like so many _chic_ girls she hadn't any girlishness at all about her; it seemed to have all been swallowed up in _chic_. Certainly her hat was very clever.

Mrs Valetta was the only one in the room who had not yet tried her claws on me, the reason evidently being that she was too tired.

She was a wicked-looking woman with weary manners. Even her coat and skirt hung on her as though it was worn out with fatigue, although it was really quite smart. After saying "De do?" to me she had sunk with a Mrs-Pat-Campbellish air into a low chair, and closed her eyes as though hoping it was the last act she need perform on earth. It was she who had the Persian-blue eyes; and die wore a felt hat slouched over them and fastened up at the side with a B.B. Police badge.

Quant-a-moi, I was not at this time at all smart. It is true that my Panama hat had come from Scotts, my grey velvet-corduroy coat and skirt had _Lucile: rue de Rivoli_ in gold letters on its waist belt, and my shoes and stockings bore the stamp of the good Peter Yap. Nevertheless, I was not smart. Africa's sunshine, dust, mail-bags, winds, rains, gra.s.s-ticks, mosquitoes, and mules had done evilly unto me and my clothes, and my appearance had not the original charm and freshness peculiar to it. Wherefore I felt very much out of tune with the world in general, and most particularly with these ladies who scrutinised me with such curiosity and penetration.

If they had shown the smallest sc.r.a.p of enthusiasm or pleasure it would have been different. But no: there they sat, watchful and grim as man-eaters. With the exception of the leathery-faced one, of whom I afterwards heard that she ate, drank, slept and had her being on horseback, and never wore anything but riding-kit, they were all imperturbably cool and fresh in light dresses, though I thought it curious that no one wore a dinner gown. Perhaps it was because they had not dined, but only "partaken of a meal" like the remarkable one which stood before me on a tray. Judy had begged me to excuse it, saying that dinner had been over for some two hours and the boys had been obliged to scratch up a meal from the ends of the earth for me. It had that appearance. There was a _very_ hard-boiled egg, a box of sardines, a dish of terribly _decla.s.se_ potatoes, and a cup of tea. Accidentally, there was also a plate of tomatoes, freshly plucked, with a bloom on them like a mist on a ripe plum, and for these I was truly grateful. I cut them into slices and with my bread-and-b.u.t.ter made little sandwiches which a.s.suaged my hunger and thirst at the same time.

The grey-eyed kitten again addressed me:

"Dear Miss Saurin, have you brought any _poudre de riz_ with you? No one here has any thing but Fuller's Earth, and you know how greasy that makes your nose."

I had no such knowledge. However, I answered civilly:

"Yes, I have _poudre de riz_ and every kind of thing made by Rimmel and Piver and Guerlain. My sister-in-law wrote me that these things were hard to get here, so I brought bags full."

An electric wave of enthusiasm pa.s.sed round the room, and for a moment Judy looked almost rapturous, until I added, "They are all with my luggage, which is coming up by waggon."

"What!" cried Mrs Skeffington-Smythe. Miss Cleeve bit her lips, and Mrs Valetta, looking wickeder than ever, closed her eyes apparently for ever. Mrs Brand was the only one who remained unmoved, but it was clear that her tanned face and a powder-puff had never made acquaintance. Judy gave a little cold laugh.

"It might have been just as well to stuff a box of _poudre de riz in_ your pocket."

"Dear Judy, my pockets were stuffed with the necessaries of life--tea, sugar, soap, sometimes even bits of meat; they called it _biltong_, but it was really nothing more or less than dried meat."

"Disgusting!" murmured Miss Cleeve. Evidently she had never suffered the exigencies of a coach journey. She must have arrived by balloon.

They glanced coldly at my battered dress-cases and hat-boxes which stood piled by the door.

"All packed to the brim with absolute necessities," I said. "The post-cart regulations allowed one to carry exactly sixty-four pounds.

Of course I carried far more, but they charged me eight pounds, six shillings, and fourpence excess. The transport-waggon people promised to have my trunks in Salisbury in four weeks' time, and I thought if I stayed about six weeks that would give me some fresh gowns to wear here, and an outfit to return in."

In the smile which greeted my words as I explained this to them I could not but recognise grimness as well as malice. The horsewoman proffered some gloomy information.

"Your things will take six months to get up here--if they ever arrive at all."

"Why, what is likely to happen to them?"

She shrugged, and spoke in jerks.

"Wet season coming on. Transport drivers take ten times longer than in dry season. Get stuck in mud-holes. Sit for weeks on river banks waiting for floods to go down. Roads sometimes so bad they abandon their loads. Leave them piled up by the roadside for next waggons to bring. Next waggons usually open them and help themselves to what they like best. Kaffirs also come and help themselves. Once when I was travelling with my husband amongst the kaffir kraals in Bechua.n.a.land I came across a native girl wearing a pink satin ball-gown that I had last seen at my dressmaker's in Kimberley and which had been dispatched by waggon with a lot of other things."

I could not help wondering who would have looked funnier in the pink satin ball-gown--Mrs Brand or the black girl.

"Yes, and then there is the sad tale of Mrs Marriott," chimed in Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, gazing at me with her striped eyes. "She came up here to be married, bringing her wedding-gown and a few things with her in the coach, while her _trousseau_ and the other things for the house were sent by waggon in three enormous cases. Well, the coach had an accident crossing a river, and she lost everything she had with her, and arrived here in a grey skirt and a pink print shirt which she was married in. That was six months ago--but if you get up early-enough in the morning you will meet Mrs Marriott doing her shopping before any one is about, still wearing her grey skirt and pink print blouse."

"Impossible!" I cried, petrified. "Well, there you are! Her three packing cases never arrived, that's all."

"But how frightful! Surely she could have been helped out with some kind of wardrobe. Surely you--" I looked from one to another of them.

"Oh, she's not one of us," said Judy carelessly. "She's a Port George woman. We couldn't very well offer to do anything. Besides, they say she is quite unapproachable. I believe the women here were ready to be friendly, but she rebuffed all advances."

"She has other troubles, besides lack of a wardrobe," said Miss Cleeve dryly.

"No one has ever been inside her house even," said Mrs Skeffington-Smythe. "Very silly of her, I think. In my opinion it always does one good to tell one's troubles to some one else."

At this Mrs Valetta gave a dry laugh that drew my attention to her, but she still had her eyes closed.

"Ah, Porkie," said Miss Cleeve, "we haven't all your simple, confiding nature." Porkie, otherwise Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, threw her a glance that was neither simple nor confiding.

"Dear Anna, thank Heaven I am exceptional in having nothing to confide,"

she retorted with a sort of perky significance.

How tired I felt of them all, and how disappointed! They were full of petty malice and empty bitterness and were making me just the same. I already felt a blight on the joy that Africa had waked in me. As day by day I had sped across the wide, rolling plains and rivers, in the generous sunshine, I had seemed to feel my soul expand and be set free from the littlenesses of life. Now here, right up in the heart of the wide continent where I had dreamed of finding simple-hearted people living happy, sincere lives--here were the petty things of life once more--empty malice, small talk, and aching hearts caused by a lack of _poudre de riz_! And not a sign of Lobengula and his six wives!

I finished my tomato sandwiches and sighed for my disillusionment. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe spoke me kindly:

"My poor child! you must be terribly warm in your heavy coat. Why don't you take it off?"

"Yes, I think I really must," I said, glad of a reason to rise and depart. "I am so very tired, Judy. I hope you will forgive me if I ask to go to bed at once."

"Oh, of course," she said, and they all chorused "Of course," and began to put on their wraps to go. "It was horrid of us to come in so soon,"

they said, "but we simply _had_ to welcome you. It is sweet having some one new; it is so sinfully dull up here. Of course, knowing that you had arrived so recently from home, we couldn't resist coming straight away. _Do_ forgive us. Goodnight. Do rest. You look _positively haggard_ with fatigue."

That was the last poisoned arrow they flung at me. But I received it heroically, for I observed that Judy and Mrs Valetta, who still remained seated, had discarded their languor and weariness for a moment and were sharing a malicious smile. I should have liked to take down one of the a.s.segais from the wall to them, but I had to content myself with saying dryly:

"It is really too charming of you all to welcome me so warmly!"

Mrs Valetta continued to smile in her sleep, but Judy resumed her languor like a wrap as the door closed on the others.

"Ah! we all live in each others' houses up here--and know each others'

secrets. You will get used to this happy state of things if you mean to stay long, Deirdre."