He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. . “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure.
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