es," Broomhurst said, with sudden seriousness; "it must be
unbearably dull for you alone here, with Drayton away all day."

Mrs. Drayton's hand shook a little as she fluttered a page of her open
book.

"I should think it quite natural you would be irritated beyond endurance
to hear that all's right with the world, for instance, when you were
sighing for the long day to pass," he continued.

"I don't mind the day so much; it's the evenings." She abruptly checked
the swift words, and flushed painfully. "I mean--I've grown stupidly
nervous, I think--even when John is here. Oh, you have no idea of the
awful _silence_ of this place at night," she added, rising hurriedly
from her low seat, and moving closer to the doorway. "It is so close,
isn't it?" she said, almost apologetically. There was silence for quite
a minute.

Broomhurst's quick eyes noted the silent momentary clinching of the
hands that hung at her side, as she stood leaning against the support at
the entrance.

"But how stupid of me to give you such a bad impression of the camp--the
first evening, too!" Mrs. Drayton exclaimed, presently; and her
companion mentally commended the admirable composure of her voice.

"Probably you will never notice that it _is_ lonely at all," she
continued; "John likes it here. He is immensely interested in his work,
you know. I hope _you_ are too. If you are interested it is all quite
right. I think the climate tries me a little. I never used to be
stupid--and nervous. Ah, here's John; he's been round to the kitchen
tent, I suppose."

"Been looking after that fellow cleanin' my gun, my dear," John
explained, shambling toward the deck-chair.

Later Broomhurst stood at his own tent door. He looked up at the
star-sown sky, and the heavy silence seemed to press upon him like an
actual, physical burden.

He took his cigar from between his lips presently, and looked at the
glowing end reflectively before throwing it away.

"Considering that she has been alone with him here for six months, she
has herself very well in hand--_very_ well in hand," he repeated.

It was Sunday morning. John Drayton sat just inside the tent, presumably
enjoying his pipe before the heat of the day. His eyes furtively
followed his wife as she moved about near him, sometimes passing close
to his chair in search of something she had mislaid. There was colour
in her cheeks; her eyes, though preoccupied, were bright; there was a
lightness and buoyan