Part 12 (1/2)

The other girl looked puzzled.

”I'm afraid I don't quite understand.”

”Well, if there's any chance of you're doing as I ask you, I'll explain,” said Sophie; ”but, of course, I don't want to talk about my private affairs if it's no good. There's nothing in the reason for _pretending_ that you need object to,” she added boldly. ”What is the reason you can't come and live? Got a sick mother, or an old aunt, or something?”

The other hesitated for a moment, then her lovely lilac eyes took on a curious expression.

”Yes, I have an aunt,” was her odd answer, but Sophie was no acute reader of eyes or odd answers.

”More fool you,” said she cheerfully. ”I'd like to see the old aunt who'd get _me_ to support her. Well, all right now, if you think you'll come I'll tell you the whole thing.”

”Yes, I think I'll come. But as I have said, it will only be for a few hours daily; sometimes in the mornings, more often in the afternoons.”

”That'll do all right. Have a whiskey-and-soda and we'll talk it over.”

”I don't care for whiskey, thank you,” said ”Lilac Eyes”; ”but I am very thirsty, and will have some soda, if I may.”

Sophie shouted to Piccanin to bring another gla.s.s, and pushed the soda and lemons across the table.

”Make yourself at home,” said she affably; ”but I hope you're not one of those a.s.ses who don't drink!”

”No, I drink if I want to--but not spirits.”

”Oh, I know--those old Cape pontacs. Save me from them!” Miss Cornell looked piously at the ceiling. The other girl, who had never tasted Cape pontac in her life, only smiled her subtle smile.

Sophie seated herself in a lounge-chair, opposite her visitor, and crossed her legs, incidentally revealing her smart French-heeled shoes and a good deal of open-work stocking through which to lilac-coloured eyes her legs looked as though they were painted red. Piccanin meanwhile removed from the room the luncheon debris, his bare feet cheeping on the pale native matting and his long black eyes taking interested glances at the visitor whenever she was not looking his way.

”And now let's get to business,” said Miss Cornell. ”First of all, you haven't told me your name yet.”

The lilac eyes were hidden for a moment under white lids, and a faint colour swept over the pale skin.

”Rosalind Chard.”

”Well, I shall call you Rosalind, of course, and you can call me Sophie if you like. Sophie Cornell's my name. Rather pretty, isn't it?”

”Very,” said Miss Chard in her gentle, entrancing voice.

”Well, now I'll tell you: I come from Cradock, in the Cape Colony, but I've been living all over the place since I left home. First, I went to stay with my sister in Kimberley. Have you ever been to Kimberley?

_Man!_ I tell you it's the most glorious place--at least, it used to be before everybody went to Jo ... you know Jo-burg, _of course_?”

Miss Chard shook her head.

”Never been to Johannesburg?” Sophie's tone expressed the utmost pity and contempt. ”Well, but you're an English girl, I can see. Not been long out here, have you?”

”Only a week or so.”

”Great Scott! you've got a lot to learn!”

Miss Cornell took a packet of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one.