"Rest—​nothing," said the other savagely. "Time enough to rest when I’m dead."

"You soon will be, all right," prophesied Randal cheerfully. "You worry too much behind your face."

No similar accusation could be levelled at Eustace, commonly known as Useless Randal, and Bettington was about to intimate as much when something caused him to sit to attention. A woman had quietly entered the shop, and from a sheet of paper in her hand began to read out a list of her requirements to Hallam. It transpired that she stood in need of a tin kettle, a water bag, six tins of bully beef, six ditto of sardines, a box of biscuits, matches, sugar, tea, coffee, and plenty of condensed milk. All were to be packed in an open packing-case ready for use on a journey. Bettington listened to these instructions because he liked the sound of her voice, but he considered it out of place in Randal to sit with mouth open and ears cocked like a terrier at point.

She had pretty dark bronzy hair pushed up under a sunburnt Panama; worn but well-shaped brown leather shoes; ditto gloves; and a good line to her grey linen coat. When she turned away from Hallam to look speculatively at the provisions on the shelves, Bettington caught sight of a pale haughty little profile, a small ear, and a curving cheek. It was a long while indeed since a profile had impressed him so agreeably. A slight sound, made no doubt inadvertently, with his crop, caused her to turn her head quickly in the direction of the two men, revealing for a moment a face that would more than have fulfilled the promise of its outline but for the look of weariness and disdain stamped upon it. At her glance, Randal rose upon his poisoned foot, clutched the buttonless shirt across his bosom, and bowed with grace. Bettington, whose hat had been jammed on his forehead concealing all but one arrogant eye, removed it abruptly and placed it on the counter, thus affording to anyone sufficiently interested an uninterrupted view of the sanguine complexion and well-shaped head of Africa’s most brilliant journalist.

It was not quite apparent whether or not the lady availed herself of this priceless opportunity—​while nodding recognition to Randal, but a faint colour showed in her cheek as she turned back to Hallam.

"Please don’t forget the condensed milk," she murmured. "And would you try and pick out the freshest looking tins, Mr Hallam? My little child lives on it, and it is very important to have it good. You know the last you had was dreadfully yellow and old."

"Yes, it was a bad lot, Mrs Stannard. I am awfully sorry, but, as you know, we couldn’t help it. We never meant to sell that consignment when we found it was bad. But Colonel Monk commandeered it for the children’s use as there was nothing better in the town."

"I know. I’m not complaining," she said gently. "The children would have starved without it. Only I do hope you’ve got some fresher tins in now?"

"Why, certainly," Hallam waved his hand at the well-filled shelves behind him. "We’ve got plenty of everything since the troops came up. And I can vouch for the milk—​it’s a first-class brand, and fresh as paint. Where are these things to be sent, Mrs Stannard? Out to your camp?"

"No," she said in a low voice; "keep them here until that convoy of waggons arrives from Salisbury—​they are expected to-night, I believe-- then send the box out to be put on the waggon in which I have engaged accommodation for myself and child." Hallam looked up as if something had hit him, but she stared at him so haughtily that he dropped his eyes and applied himself to the business of adding up the bill. She paid, and with a cold nod and no further glance at the other men left the shop. Bettington, having occasion to go to the door to examine some whip thongs that hung in a bunch before the entry, saw her walking in light fleet fashion towards the Police Camp.

"She won’t hurt the daisies," he murmured pleasantly to himself, as he sauntered back into the shop where the two other men were neck deep in what sounded perilously like village scandal.

"What do you think of that?" Hallam was inquiring with a stunned air. He had come over to Randal’s side of the shop. "She’s had enough! Going to take the baby and scoot!"

"And I don’t blame her a brass button. The only wonder is she didn’t do it long ago!" Randal wore a judicial manner.

"Her sister kept her from it, I guess, and lack of funds. Stannard is tight with the sinews of war. Needs them all to square his whiskey bills."

Bettington made no attempt to take part in this interesting dialogue, but listened to it very carefully and pensively.

"What will Miss van Rimmel do?" Randal wondered. "Go with her?"

"Not she. She’s always been dead against her sister leaving Stannard. Thinks that while there’s life there’s hope of reformation, even in such a double-dyed sheep as he is. I bet if Mrs Stannard does go, she’ll stay behind and nurse Stan through—​and the Doc says he’s got 'em bad this time—​rats and cats and purple elephants."

"I don’t care what colour the menagerie is as long as it keeps Miss van Rimmel here."

"Me neither," averred Hallam elegantly.

They became aware of Bettington’s sardonic presence, and dropped the subject as if it burnt.

"As I was saying," remarked Randal briskly, "we had better take fifty pounds of that dried buck off that Boer. It’s the best biltong I’ve struck since I dunno when."

"Right you are!" Hallam began to write in his note book. Randal turned his attention to the thoughtful journalist.

"What about your lions, Bet? Still think of going out to look for them?"

Bet regarded him pensively.

"So I am to have the society of a pretty lady between here and Beira?" he remarked.