"Well, I don't think he's any friend of yours, from what I've heard."
"No? I suppose not. He's been putting about a yarn or two of his own
here with regard to me, with just that substratum of truth about it that
makes the half lie the most telling. But--good Lord, what does it
matter?"
Clare's eyes opened wide. There was no affectation about this
indifference--and how different this man was to the general ruck.
Instead of getting into a fume and promising to call the delinquent to
account, and so forth, as most men would have done, this one simply lay
back against the hard cold stone, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and said,
"What does it matter?"
"Then you are indifferent to the opinion of other people about you?" she
said.
"Utterly. Utterly and entirely. I look at it from this point of view.
If anything is said to my discredit, those whose opinions are worth
having won't believe it. If they do, their opinions are not worth
having--from my stand-point. See?"
"Yes, I do. You are a practical philosopher."
"I don't aim at being. The conclusion is sheer common-sense."
Then there fell silence. The rays of the newly risen sun poured down
hotter and hotter upon the parched-up land, but the air was wonderfully
clear. Behind lay the township, its zinc roofs flashing and shimmering
in the unstinted morning radiance. Before lay roll upon roll of billowy
verdure, and, on the right, a vast expanse stretching away, blue with
distance, to the far skyline. Bright, peaceful and free, yet at that
moment seething with demoniacal hate and the planning of demoniacal
deeds. Yet here they sat, these two, conversing as unconcernedly as
though such things were as completely impossible, as completely of the
past, as one of them, at any rate, had up to half an hour ago imagined.
"I must be going back," said Clare. "This is only a before breakfast
constitutional."
"I'll go too. I've found out all I want to. I shall start back home
this evening."
"This evening? Why, you are never going back to that lonely farm again,
with these savages plotting to murder us all?"
"Yes, I am. They won't do it yet I am persuaded of that."
Clare's eyes dilated, as he walked beside her, leading his horse. The
`coward' again, she could not help thinking to herself. How many of
those who so decried him, knowing what he did, would have started on a
long solitary ride across the country to return to a solitary, and
practically defenceless, dwelling at the end of the journey?
"But get Fullerton to take you into Buluwayo for a time," he repeated,
as they neared the township. "This place is too small, and straggling,
and might be rushed."
"But he won't. He'd laugh at the idea, if I put it to him."
"Yes. I know. Fullerton's a pig-headed chap--very. Still you needn't
put it on its true grounds. Make out you want to shop, or see a
dentist, or something, and get your sister to back you up. It'll be
strange if you can't work it between you. Only--do it--do it."
She was impressed by his earnestness, and duly promised.
"Do look in and see us before you go out, Mr Lamont," she said, as they
regained the township. "When do you start?"
"About sundown. There's a nice new moon, and it's pleasanter to ride at
night, also easier on one's horse."
"Well, we shall be at home all the afternoon, Lucy and I. Good-bye for
the present."