she had been acutely frightened
of being alone. But she wanted
some one that she respected
with her.
It had begun very simply. She
liked what he wrote and she
had always envied the life he
led. She thought he did exactly
what he wanted to. The steps
by which she had acquired him
and the way in which she had
finally fallen in love with him
were all part of a regular
progression in which she had
built herself a new life and he
had traded away what
remained of his old life.
He had traded it for security,
for comfort too, there was no
denying that, and for what
else? He did not know. She
would have bought him
anything he wanted. He knew
that. She was a damned nice
woman too. He would as soon
be in bed with her as any one;
rather with her, because she
was richer, because she was
very pleasant and appreciative
and because she never made
scenes. And now this life that
she had built again was coming
to a term because he had not
used iodine two weeks ago
when a thorn had scratched his
knee as they moved forward
trying to photograph a herd of
waterbuck standing, their heads
up, peering while their nostrils
searched the air, their ears
spread wide to hear the first
noise that would send them
rushing into the bush. They had
bolted, too, before he got the
picture.
Here she came now. He turned
his head on the cot to look
toward her. "Hello," he said.
"I shot a Tommy ram," she told
him. "He'll make you good
broth and I'll have them mash
some potatoes with the Klim.
How do you feel?"
"Much better."
"Isn't that lovely? You know I
thought perhaps you would.
You were sleeping when I
left."
"I had a good sleep. Did you
walk far?"
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
262