Jack, of a more meditative habit, rarely followed his host with the
same obvious haste. He finished his breakfast calmly, and then
asked Jocelyn whether she was coming out on to the verandah. It was
a habit they had unconsciously dropped into. The verandah was a
very important feature of the house, thickly overhung as it was with
palms, bananas, and other tropical verdure. Africa is the land of
creepers, and all around this verandah, over the trellis-work,
around the supports, hanging in festoons from the roof, were a
thousand different creeping flowers. The legend of the house--for,
as in India, almost every bungalow on the West Coast has its tale--
was that one of the early missionaries had built it, and, to beguile
the long months of the rainy season, had carefully collected these
creepers to beautify the place against the arrival of his young
wife. She never came. A telegram stopped her. A snake interrupted
his labour of love.
Jack took a seat at once, and began to search for his cigar-case in
the pocket of his jacket. In this land of flies and moths men need
not ask permission before they smoke. Jocelyn did not sit down at
once. She went to the front of the verandah and watched her brother
mount his horse. She was a year older than Maurice Gordon, and
exercised a larger influence over his life than either of them
suspected.
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