If Denham's impressions had been thus with regard to Verna, hers had
been the same with regard to himself. She had seen him first, as he
came up the garden path with her father, and the tall, fine figure, and
clean-cut face had taken her imagination at once. She remembered, only
the other day, asking her father what sort of man this would be likely
to be, never expecting to set eyes on him, and now here he was.
"Got any room at the bigger table, Emmie?" said Ben Halse, as they went
in. He had known the hostess of the Nodwengu--herself the daughter of a
fine old up-country trader and pioneer--ever since she was born. "I
like being among folks when I break away, which isn't often."
"Plenty. We're anything but full now, worse luck. Here, next me.
Verna, you sit there."
"There" meant next Denham, an arrangement of which the latter thoroughly
approved. "Verna!" So that was her name, he thought. It sounded
pretty, and seemed to suit her.
"You've only just arrived, I hear, Mr Denham," she began. "Well, I'm
not going to ask you what you think of this country, because you haven't
had time to form an opinion."
"I like what I've seen of it," he answered. "Ezulwini seems a
delightful spot."
"Mr Denham collects butterflies and beetles, and all sorts of things,"
struck in Mrs Shelford. "I came upon him this morning with a horrid
leggy thing he'd just caught. What was it, Mr Denham? A praying--
praying--something?"
"Amantis."
"Yes. He'll be catching snails next."
"Shouldn't wonder, Mrs Shelford. I'm keen on capturing the skin of the
_indhlondhlo_."
"He's jolly rare," said Ben Halse, with a twinkle in his eyes. "We
might find one up my way, but it isn't certain."
"What did you call that snake, Mr Denham?" said Verna.