"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 clenching 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 towards 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.
