Free Brittle Bondage by Rosalind Brett Page B

meet again.”
    Her smile down at him was mischievous. “That will give you something to look forward to. Out of my way, please, and no poaching this side of the border.
    “Words of flint from the lips of beauty! When do you go to Ellisburg?”
    “Never. Leave go of the rein.”
    “I can’t let you ride straight out of my life. Don’t you give tennis parties at Bondolo to which you could invite an extra player who possesses considerable charm? My speed is pretty good.”
    “I don’t doubt it. If we’re a man short I’ll send for you.” Her heel nudged Ginger's side. “Good-bye once more.”
    The horse moved off.
    “But you haven’t my address!” Neil called after her.
    Laughter floated over her shoulder. “We’re bound to meet again,” she reminded him, and urged the chestnut into a canter.

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    THE smile stayed on her mouth and sparkled in her eyes. She had met one or two men of Neil’s type before, at Umsanga, and been diverted but not deceived by their frank flattery. It was a line they took which assured them of instant popularity with women of all ages but kept them free of complications.
    She supposed he was about twenty-five and not too enamoured with the prospect of settling down to his career. Vaguely, she recollected a chance encounter with his cousin in town, and Margery’s shrug: “He seldom visits or entertains. Passes his spare time watching wild life and pitying himself. Rather a boor of a man, I believe.” Venetia might have followed up the matter had she guessed that Mervyn Mansfield was, as distances are gauged in South Africa, a close neighbour to Bondolo. Blake had never mentioned him.
    By the time she reached the paddock, Neil Mansfield was forgotten, but his effect upon her lingered in the music of her voice and her mad rush with Binty down to the bathingpool. Her blood sang, her whole body vibrated with a delicious yearning.
    She swam and lazed in the shade, threw a stick for the spaniel, and wished that Blake would come—wished hard, because he was the focal point of her new happiness and longing. The chimes of the hall clock carried thinly down the garden, separating the quarters; in due course it struck one o’clock, and it was useless to loiter any longer.
    She put on a dress and brushed her hair, inspected the dining-table, and peeped under the covers at cold meats and salad. A little on edge as she always was when he came late, she strolled on to the veranda.
    He appeared on the path, striding, and she went down the steps to meet him. Sharply and cruelly, all expectancy died.
    “Have you had trouble, Blake?”
    “Plenty of it,” he answered grimly. “I haven’t time for lunch. I’ve come back for the car.”
    “It won’t take five minutes to get you a flask and some sandwiches.”
    “I’ll have the coffee if it’s made. No food.”
    She paused, hoping he would add something cheering, but he lit a cigarette and twisted to gaze at the garden.
    When she came back with the vacuum flask he was in the hall.
    “Blake, can I do anything?”
    He shook his head. “It’s turned out to be one of those black days, that’s all. One of my lorry-drivers overturned his bus, broke an axle and ruined three-quarters of the load. I was on my way down there when a boy chased after me with the news that a piccanin had fooled with a scythe and slashed his leg to the bone. So I had to race back and patch him up.” He pulled on his cigarette as if it tasted bitter. “The lorry is blocking the road. I must have an ox-team and boys there to shift it.”
    “You may feel hungry presently. I could send a boy with a snack.”
    “No. When this job is done I’ll call it a day.”
    “I wish I could help.”
    He hesitated. “You can. Write a note to the Ellisburg Garage explaining what’s happened, and asking that a mechanic be sent out at once. Fumana can take it in the jeep and go around by the Lawnside private road. At the rate these people move the man will reach here