He represented something in flesh
and blood which had never seemed more than half real to her - power
without education. She liked to consider herself - being a writer
with ambitions who took herself seriously - a student of human
nature. Here was a specimen worth impaling, an original being, a
creature of a new type such as never had come within the region of
her experience. It was worth while ignoring small idiosyncrasies
which might offend, in order to annex him. Besides, from a
journalistic point of view, the man was more than interesting - he
was a veritable treasure.
"You are going to talk to me about Africa, are you not?" she
reminded him. "Couldn't we sit in the shade somewhere. I got
quite hot walking from the station."
He led the way across the lawn, and they sat under a cedar-tree.
He was awkward and ill at ease, but she had tact enough for both.
"I can't understand," he began, "how people are interested in the
stuff which gets into papers nowadays. If you want horrors though,
I can supply you. For one man who succeeds over there, there are a
dozen who find it a short cut down into hell. I can tell you if
you like of my days of starvation."
"Go on!"
Like many men who talk but seldom, he had the gift when he chose to
speak of reproducing his experiences in vivid though unpolished
language.
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