Tamarisk Bay

TAMARISK BAY Kathryn Blair

Jenny sat gazing out at the lagoon and thinking about Philip Brooke. He was a stranger. He had said that in a crowd they might not even notice each other, but Jenny knew better. Almost certainly that arrogant gaze of his would pass over Jenny Manson, but there wasn’t a woman anywhere who could come within a dozen yards of him and not be conscious of his magnetism. In any case, they weren’t in a crowd! They were alone, quite alone, on a tropic beach.

CHAPTER ONE DAWN broke heavy and sulphurous, laden with hot mist. At the end of the clearing the mangroves now grew in mid-river, their talons hidden, the green tops drifting with the current, and water flowed into the forest so that rubber and mahogany were waist-deep, bamboos and lianas swaying, though there was no breeze. The teeming stillness of night was ended; the steady drip-drip from the trees was a monotonous companion to the all-pervading reek of mud and decay. Jenny had been too much concerned about the children to sleep. She had spent the brief remainder of the night after their arrival balanced precariously on the edge of the ground-sheet, reaching out occasionally to feel if those two well-wrapped bodies were warm and dry, but now she sat up and looked at them. Diane, bless her placid little heart, looked as rosy and full of sweet dreams as any seven-year-old in a familiar sunny bedroom; a delightfully matter-of-fact child who accepted the jungle as a city child accepts speed and cacophony. Peter was frowning, though, as if even in sleep he went on living his intense little life to the exclusion of everyone else. At nearly nine, Peter was an individual; he needed other boys much more than Diane needed girl playmates, and he was apt to run a fever for no reason at all. He would have gone home in about eight months, anyway, to attend a boarding school. Peter was really the reason that Jenny now found herself alone with the children in this clearing on the edge of the swollen Lumani River. Yes, she thought a little sadly, Puleng was only a clearing now. The houses on stilts were gone, swept away on the implacable flood-tide; only a scum of thatch caught among the trunks gave evidence that they had ever existed. The people, those laughingeyed, dark-skinned families who lived on boiled rice and fish from

the river, had either escaped towards the sea or taken refuge in the forest. It was the sort of catastrophe that happened every decade or so in the eastern reaches of the Indian Ocean, but Jenny was too English, too accustomed to a temperate zone, to accept it. For eighteen months she had light- heartedly enjoyed Sumatra and its people, but all the time she had known an itch to shake them out of their eversmiling lethargy. It was only in the last week or two, while living from day to palpitating day at the rubber plantation and trying exasperatedly to wrench news in English from a storm-rent radio, that she had realized how fierce were the odds against the population of the country. Last year the rains had been violent and excessive; they had washed away crops and trees, the flimsier dwellings and loads of good earth. That had been normal. This year, though, the rains had begun late and unleashed their stored-up fury in barbaric and continuous torrents. Rivers rose startlingly, roads were obliterated and whole sturdy homesteads were swept away. And this could be only the beginning; there were months more of rain to come. At the plantation Mary Boden had begun to panic. Whatever might happen, they were safe enough in the big house, but supposing the rains stopped completely and the waters went down? How could children who were enervated by a long spell in the tropics be expected to resist the disease that floods inevitably left behind? She would feel so much better if the children were with her sister in Singapore; and if Jenny were with them, continuing as their governess, they would not be likely to feel the upheaval too much. Tim Boden, from whom Diane had inherited her equable disposition, had tried to calm his wife, but when the news came through that thousands of square miles were flooded and whole

villages wiped out, even he began to agree that the children should be got away as soon as possible. Early yesterday morning—it seemed a lifetime ago to Jenny—he had picked up a short-wave message to the effect that a plane would be calling at various points to collect passengers for Singapore. No hour could be given, but the day was certain: tomorrow. And the nearest air- stop to the plantation would be Puleng. The journey down from the plantation had been hazardous, to say the least. Tim had taken them by car as far as he could, and then he had paid a couple of Malays to canoe them the rest of the way on the Lumani. He had hated parting from them, but had no option. "There's no one else Mary and I would rather trust them with, Jenny, and you'll be perfectly safe once you get on the plane. Puleng is quite a village, and if you put yourself immediately into the hands of the head man there he'll give you shelter and food. You shouldn't have many hours to wait. I only hope you'll have enough money." "We've cleaned you out of ready cash, I'm afraid," Jenny had said cheerfully. "I've plenty for the fares, anyway, and it will only be a matter of contacting Mrs. Boden's sister in Singapore. Tell Mrs. Boden not to worry." "She'll be all right now she knows she's done her utmost for the children. Get them to Singapore, Jenny. That's all we ask." "I'll get them there," she had promised him, "and I'll send you a message at once, though with the communications all haywire you won't receive it for some time." They didn't talk any longer, and Jenny remembered feeling thankful that Mary had said her goodbyes at the house. Poor Mary had been torn between two loyalties, and though she was convinced she had made the right choice in electing to stay with her husband, she knew

she would miss the children unbearably for a while, even though it would relieve her to know them safe from the steaming, mosquitoladen aftermath of the storms. The trip down the river was one to which Jenny might have responded with zest had there been no children to worry about. The boiling rapids, the swirling stream-beds, submerged wreckage, fallen trees—the canoe had miraculously bounced its way through them all. And the eventual arrival at Puleng in the small hours had been unbelievable, for the kampong, with its native houses and rest hut, its landing stage and wide sweep of cropped grass, no longer existed. In its place was an expanse of muddy red water which would rise further if there were more rain within the next twentyfour hours. Scarcely a sign remained of the community which had existed when the Bodens had brought Jenny up the river in a motor launch eighteen month ago. In the dark it had been queer, particularly when Diane had loudly and insistently stated that this was not Puleng at all and Peter's hand had stolen into Jenny's and gripped it. Relying on the word of the canoe boys she had told the children that this was Puleng all right, and all they had to do was sleep till dawn. Exhaustion and overexcitement had taken their toll; no sooner had the two dark heads reached the rug spread over the ground-sheet than both had gone to sleep. One of them stirred now—Peter. He opened his eyes and - looked at Jenny for a long minute, then pushed at the hard ground and sat up. "Hallo," said Jenny brightly. "Are you stiff?" "Not very." He looked about him, saw the water lipping over the grass a hundred yards away, and the trees encircling what remained of the clearing. "Didn't they leave the boat?"

"No, they had to get back to their homes and the river is running more strongly every hour. We'll be perfectly all right till the plane comes. Are you hungry?" "Not if it's chocolate again." "There are biscuits in the satchel, and a couple of oranges, though I think we ought to save those. You should run about a bit." He sat up straight beside her, pushing down the coat which had covered him. He looked at her navy linen frock and the short matching jacket, at her bare legs and flat black shoes. Then, as if satisfied that even in this sober garb it was his own Jenny Manson at his side, he nodded. "But I hadn't better waken Diane. Jenny," he paused, "aren't you glad Mummy and Daddy don't know we had to spend the night like this?" His occasional adult gravity disturbed Mary Boden, but Jenny had come to realize that in Peter it was natural, and inseparable from his type of mind. In these circumstances it was something to be thankful for. "Yes, I am, really," she admitted, "but it hasn't been too bad, has it? The journey down the river was quite an adventure." "But it took hours and hours. We must be a long way from home." "About two hundred miles, and it's water now, practically all the way back. There aren't any roads and you can't get back up the river because of the rapids. We'll have to stay in Singapore till the rains clear, but you won't mind, Peter. You'll have your cousins to play with."

"They're not bad," he conceded. "What will we do if the plane doesn't come?" "It will come," she said with conviction, "but if it didn't your Daddy would hear about it over the radio and send someone down to us." Peter accepted this without further question. The sun was rising in a thick haze, the great stretches of water steamed, even where the surging river showed itself, and the trees were wreathed in vapour. Monkeys chattered in the nearest group of trees, and Diane awoke and without any preliminaries commenced her morning as she began mornings at home, with a shrill song. Peter stood up with dignity. "I'm going to wash," he said. "Can I have a clean shirt?" Jenny opened his suitcase and found one. While he was washing she tidied Diane, to whom their situation was a little novel but not so different from camping by the sea, except that Jenny was stuffy and wouldn't allow her to bathe. That morning became the longest Jenny had ever lived through. The sticky heat was palpable, the sky an odd bronze, and every so often there would come the loud droning of myriads of migrant insects. She had brought a book for each of the children to read in the plane, but neither could now be induced to open one. Diane's idea of a joke was to say in her flat, positive fashion that she could-hear the plane, and Peter, as always when he had little to do, seemed on edge. Jenny walked the length of the clearing with the two of them, incessantly straining her ear to the heavens. The sight of one darkskinned face among the trees would have given her untold relief, but the expression she showed the children was calm and confident. By noon, she was wondering why she had ever taken the post as governess to the two Boden children. Looked at in the light of her

present position the whole thing had been fantastic, yet at the time the work had seemed heaven-sent. It hadn't been too cheerful, living with her brother and his wife in the small Staffordshire town, particularly as money was tight and her training still incomplete; Jenny hadn't blamed either of them for not wanting a third person in the house. She had reached a point where she simply must get out and earn a living, even if she could snaffle nothing more remunerative than a job in a kindergarten. Then the Bodens had advertised. They were on leave from the East and wished to engage someone who could teach and look after their two children. In some trepidation Jenny had called at the mansion on the edge of the town, where they were staying with Mary's parents, and in a very short time she was committed to returning with the Boden family to the plantation in Sumatra. So far she had not regretted the decision, but at the moment her faith in her own ability to manage any predicament which might arise was somewhat shaken. It would be nice to know just where she and the children would be this time tomorrow! The biscuits and oranges had been eaten, and all that remained in the satchel was a tin of corned beef. All three of them were thirsty, an extremely aggravating condition in the midst of so much liquid, but Jenny went on firmly hoping and smiling. She concocted a story of full-blooded excitement, which Peter picked to pieces so drastically that she began inventing deliberate howlers, to keep up the pitch. It was about one-thirty when the unmistakable humming of the plane became trapped in the clearing. Peter gave a short hysterical laugh; Diane, scarcely quivering a muscle in her poker face, let out a piercing yell, and Jenny's heart soared dizzily. As arranged, they ran to the centre of the clearing with the rug, and when the plane came lower and circled they waved it madly.

"They'll see that Puleng is under water," said Jenny breathlessly. "All we have to do is flap about like the dickens, so that they know someone's here!" "D'you think there's room to land?" yelled Peter, dancing at his corner of the rug. "It's not a big plane. When they come lower still it will mean they've seen us, and we'll run for the trees." Which was exactly what happened. Back among the wild rubber bamboos and with an arm about each of the children, Jenny watched the plane swing lower and lower. She hardly knew that her fists and teeth were clenched tightly, and as the wheels bounced on the grass she found herself cheering as noisily as the children. The engines stopped. Jenny became aware of faces staring from the round windows, of the opening door and a short steel ladder being used by an air stewardess in pale tropical blue. With quite an effort, and still holding tightly on to Peter and Diane, Jenny moved forward to meet her. A pilot leapt down from his cabin and came beside the air stewardess, staring at the three in consternation. "Heavens," he said. "Here's a do." "What he means," explained the stewardess, smiling sympathetically down at Diane, "is that we're full up. We just can't take any more weight. We were advised that Puleng was under water and weren't going to stop here, but as the stop was scheduled the pilot and navigator decided to take a look. How on earth did you get here?" "On water," Jenny corrected her. In some alarm she added, "There's nothing here at all! What can we do?" "I'm not sure. We go straight to Singapore and we could tell them you're here."

"That's no good," inserted the pilot. "It's still raining brickbats inland and by this time tomorrow the whole of this clearing will be covered. This end of the country is smothered in jungle—the nearest landing ground is more than a hundred miles away. But you're only three or four miles from the coast." Jenny looked at the immense surrounding trees. "Yes, but how does one find the way? For myself, I'd take the chance, but I wouldn't dare risk taking the children through the jungle. They're already hungry and thirsty." "We can deal with that," said the pilot, happy to find at least one way in which he could oblige. "This is turning into a mercy trip, but the trouble is there are too darned many of you who need it." By now, one of the passengers had made the descent to the grass, and Jenny became conscious of a tall man in khaki drill. At that moment she cared too little what anyone looked like to bother with his appearance, but she did get an impression of darkish hair and blue-green eyes. For a moment or two, while they were speaking, he said nothing, but even Jenny felt his presence and expected his intervention. It came coolly, pleasantly. "We definitely can't leave a woman and two children in a spot like this. The youngsters can take my place and perhaps you can find someone else to give up his seat." "Why, how truly generous!" exclaimed Jenny, impulsive with relief. "I don't know whether to accept or not." "You have no choice," he said, and turned to the stewardess. "Will you arrange to have my luggage left here? There's just one suitcase—I'll get my coat from my seat." And he walked round the

plane, lighting a cigarette and carelessly flicking away the match as he went. "Well, well," said the stewardess softly. "That's Mr. Philip Brooke. All the trappings of the chivalrous buccaneer, hasn't he?" "He's certainly my hero at the moment," Jenny admitted fervently, "but I feel horrid at making people give up their seats. I want the children to go—I promised their parents I'd get them on this plane— but I don't feel I can ask anyone to forego the trip for me. What do you think?" "Since you put it that way," returned the stewardess candidly, "I think you're very lucky to get the children away. Mr. Brooke was the only one properly booked with us, but the rest of the passengers have had bad times up-country, and had no end of a job to reach an airfield. The women are all a good deal older than you are and two men have to go straight to hospital. The other men are getting on in years and' travelling with their wives. They've all had more than enough of the floods—but I'll ask, if you like." "No, don't." Jenny willed herself to think clearly. "You said you're going straight to Singapore. Can the children be taken care of there till their aunt comes for them?" "Sure thing," came the response, and the pilot nodded his warm assurance. "Does the aunt live in the town?" "Yes, and Peter will explain everything; he's very reliable. You're sure they'll be quite safe?" "Certain!" The girl patted Diane's curly head. "I won't let either of them out of my sight till they're handed over. But what are you going to do?"

"Well," Jenny hesitated. "I think there must be natives somewhere near; this used to be a busy village. I might pick up a guide. Once 1 reach the sea I might be able to get a passage of some sort along the coast, and eventually make my way back to the plantation." "You could try it." The pilot nodded doubtfully. The air stewardess raised one eyebrow. "Mr. Brooke will make for the sea, too, so you'll have protection. Beware of that nonchalant charm of his; I believe others have fallen for it. I've heard he has a way with the ladies!" The pilot looked dour. "Don't frighten the girl; it's bad enough having to leave her here." To Jenny, he said, "Mr. Brooke came on at North Borneo and he knows this kind of country. When we get to Singapore I'll report haying left you here, but don't hope for too much. I believe the best we shall be able to do is to get someone along the coast to pick you up. I wish we could do more." "I'll get through," she answered him gratefully. "It's the children that matter." The formalities were dealt with, the children's two cases stowed. Diane was unconcerned, but Peter looked uneasily at the plane and then at the red, rushing river. He was just old enough to feel small manly promptings, and at the moment they were giving him trouble. "Daddy wouldn't like us to leave you here," he said. "If the plane can't take you I ought to stay." He frowned at the pilot. "Jenny's only little. I don't suppose all three of us together weigh so much as that big man." "It's not entirely a matter of weight, son," was the harassed answer, "though I might tell you it's going to be a sticky job getting up off this layer of sponge. There's a safety level, and we've already overreached it by taking two passengers in the place of one. We can't do

anything more." And probably because his inadequacy annoyed him, he climbed back into his cabin. Jenny concluded her business with the air stewardess, and after the children had mounted the ladder she went up after them and saw them squashed into a seat and secured by the safety belt. She kissed them quickly. "You'll reach Singapore this evening," she told them, "and be tucked up in one of your auntie's bedrooms. I may follow you or go back to the plantation, but in any case you must write at once to Mummy and Daddy. You promise, Peter?" "All right," he said resignedly. "Do I have to take charge of the letter you gave to the air stewardess?" "No, she'll give it to your aunt herself, with your various papers. Be very good on the journey, won't you?" "I expect I shall be sick." "So shall I," chanted Diane of the iron constitution. "Chew the sweets you're given and you'll both be all right." Jenny looked at the grey-faced man who occupied the window seat, and realized that others in the plane were made awkward by the presence of a young woman who had to be left behind. Swiftly, she touched the two dark heads. "As soon as the plane is up they'll give you food and drink. Goodbye darlings!" Her eyes were misty as she came out into the throbbing sunshine. She saw the steel ladder drawn up, the door closed. The engines revved interminably, and she remembered, anxiously, that the pilot was worried about the lack of space for take-off. There could be no question of turning; he would have to leave the ground within moments, and rise steeply to miss the treetops.

It was a perfect makeshift take-off. A crescendo of noise from the twin engines, a brief run and a brilliant lift that showed the winged silver thing against the sky with the trees below. In a matter of seconds there was only a receding murmur, and soon that, too, was lost in the roar of rushing waters. "You do realize, of course," said a faintly mocking voice behind her, "that we'll have to leave the suitcases here? We'll both need to have our hands quite free." Jenny turned swiftly, looking upwards. "Oh! Oh, yes." She collected her wits, felt an unidentifiable twinge somewhere near the base of her throat, but spoke more firmly. "I feel rather appalled at what I've let you in for. I haven't even thanked you properly for giving up your seat to the children. I appreciate it so much that just saying thank you doesn't seem nearly enough." "That's the spirit," he said laconically. "How long have you been in this country?" "A year and a half." "Done any jungle trekking?" "A very little, at week-ends in dry weather. But I'm tough. I can stand no end." He regarded her appraisingly. Her wide smooth forehead had an innocence about it which didn't quite coincide with her air of selfpossession, and the hazel eyes were startlingly clear and unwavering. His smile was casual, knowledgeable. "I'm sure you're tough. Well, let's get organized. What is your name, by the way?" "Jenny Manson."

"Twenty-one yet?" "Not quite. The air stewardess told me you're Mr. Brooke, from British North Borneo." "No, I'm a government officer at Kinoi, an island up that way. I spent a week with some friends in North Borneo and hopped the plane there." He looked around. "This isn't going to be a pretty walk through forest glades, you know, and we shan't be able to carry much. Open up your case and take out everything that's absolutely necessary. I'll do the same with mine, and we'll wrap them in your rug and ground-sheet. The ground- sheet has cords, so I'll be able to sling the bundle across my back." He reached for a cardboard box that rested beside his case. "I got some sandwiches for you from the galley in the plane. I also swiped a thermos of chilled lemon. Want some now?" "May I? I'm more thirsty than hungry." "Don't take it too fast. Tell me how you got to Puleng." She sipped gratefully, enjoying the feel of the cold beaker between her hands. "We came by canoe from about a hundred and fifty miles up the river. We left yesterday afternoon, and life's been awfully queer ever since, but it seemed exciting till I began to wonder if we were going to be stranded here at Puleng." "I'll bet it did. I could hardly believe it when we touched down and you came from among the trees. A pretty little nothing and two children." She shot him a surprised glance, remembered she was in his debt and said nothing. His calm acceptance of their situation, the very fact that he existed, whatever his attitude, were things to be grateful for. She watched him spread the ground-sheet and then the rug over it. She saw a tidy heap of shorts, shirts and other male impedimenta

take its place near the centre of the rug, and as soon as she had finished the drink she bent and snapped open her own case. Her thin white things and the blue silk toilet bag took their place with his belongings. Except to tell her she could include her bathing suit and a couple of frocks, he made no comment. He squared the heap, first wrapped it in the rug and then in the ground-sheet, managing somehow to keep the cords free at each corner. These he tied into two loops which would fit over his shoulders. Jenny dropped a dark skirt and two pair of shoes back into her suitcase. She saw the leather-bound book lying there, a volume of Keats, and slipped it out and into the pocket of her long coat. It had been given her by someone understanding and friendly, and she had the feeling that it might be good to lay a hand on it occasionally during the next few hours. He picked up the food satchel she had brought from the plantation, and straightened. "We'll put the odds and ends in here. I begged a first-aid kit from the pilot, and there's your handbag and so on. I'll keep the compass in my pocket." "Compass?" she echoed. "You get used to carrying one in this kind of country, even on short trips. I only know this coast of Sumatra through cruising the waters. Don't worry, little one. I won't lose you." The unconcerned tone made her look at him, really look at him, for the first time. He wasn't quite so dark as she had thought. His hair had one crisp wave and was mahogany-colored, the tan of his skin was only slightly lighter. She saw the long line of his nose and the skin taught across his cheekbones. His hands were flesh- less and powerfully boned, and they made her glance once more at that

perfect upper lip, the debatable lower one. She met his eyes, a mocking blue-green. This incident was unimportant to him. It was merely a thrust of fate that he had no intention of accepting. Instinctively, she knew that the careless indolence was a veneer; this was a man of action, one who inevitably took the course of his life into his own hands. But he was too good-looking, too casual, too enigmatic. She found he was still looking at her, and to her own annoyance felt a faint heat coming into her cheeks. She didn't know that the hint of confusion enhanced her golden tan and made her eyes warm; she felt conscious of a shiny nose, of sand-silk hair that needed attention, of dreadful navy linen under the molten sky. His mouth dented at one corner. "Have I a smut on my nose?" Her chin tilted. "I was just looking you over in case I lose you in the crowd." He grinned. "Think quickly, don't you? Maybe you're wasted out on that plantation. Ready?" "Where do we put the cases?" "We just leave them. Tomorrow they'll rocket down the Lumani to the sea." "It seems a pity," she said, as they started walking. "My brother gave me mine as a parting gift." He looked back at his own case, and shrugged. "If you ever write and tell him you can say it went in good company. Mine has been round the world and back again."

She kept in step at his side, wondered that in the midst of her, difficulties she could feel so queerly eager for the hike through the jungle to the shore. As they reached the end of the clearing she was impelled to put a final question. "Mr. Brooke—what are we likely to find at the coast?" "Shelter for the night and the chance of a boat tomorrow." The answer was too sketchy. Jenny tried again. "Do you know if there's a white settlement there?" "There's no settlement. Last time I was along there I put in for supplies and had quite a pleasant time with a trader and his wife— both white—who've lived there for years. They have a store, and a log house near the sea. The village is spread out behind the beach, and the natives make their living from wild coconuts. You'll be perfectly safe there." "Do you think they'll have the sort of boat that will take us as far up the coast as the other airfield?" "Could be. We might even wait there a few days and get a freighter to Singapore." He indicated a space between the trees that was less liana-grown than the impenetrable wall on each side. "This is apparently a footpath that runs parallel to the river. Keep straight behind me—and you'd better give me that coat." "I'm willing to leave it behind if you think I should." "You'll need it on the boat; I'll take it. And watch your step." To argue with someone who is leading one out of primitive danger and into comparative civilization is neither good policy nor just.. Jenny silently handed over her coat, helped to push it into position under the package on his back, looked with exasperation at the

satchel which he had earlier insisted on strapping to his wrist, and followed him into the jungle. And what jungle it was! Cool, dim, green and wet. Vines and bamboos, wild bananas and plantains growing like weeds, feathery green trees with dozens of trunks shooting from a single root, pale orchids sprouting from crevices in tree-bark mosses hanging straight overhead like curtain upon curtain of green lace that shut out the sun. And the stillness, which nowhere else could be so intense, so alive. It was mysterious, imprisoning, its only benefit that blessed coolness. An occasional parakeet screeched in the branches; monkeys moved, unseen, but the ground animals had been driven to higher levels, though there was the feeling of being watched by alien eyes. At least, Jenny had it, though she doubted whether Mr. Philip' Brooke thought about anything beyond following the three-mile trail. She had never imagined any man could be so entirely indifferent to incredible surroundings. Now and then he would hack at a branch with a lethal-looking knife which he had no doubt lifted from the plane's galley when appropriating the sandwiches. Sometimes he looked back and asked, "How're you doing?" for all the world as if this were a stroll through the gorse at Bournemouth. Jenny replied cheerfully, "Fine!" whether she was floundering ankle-deep in mud or balancing on a bed of bamboos that he had trodden down for her. At a little after four Jenny looked at her watch. She thought of the children on their way to Singapore, and reflected, rather longingly, that it would have been heaven to be with them. For the first time since early morning she remembered Mary and Tim Boden, and in a way she felt glad that she was still in Sumatra, so that they would know all the sooner that the children were safe. There was bound to be some form of communication at the coast.

Queerly, her brother Michael and his wife came into her mind. Though Michael had consented almost happily to her travelling to a climate both torrid and occasionally unhealthy, he would be horrified by her present dilemma. Michael was stolid and stay-athome. He ran Cicely's father's bookshop and read his wares; it would never have occurred to him to seek adventure except through the printed word. Cicely, a dauntless social climber, suited him perfectly. She had fought with elegant ruthlessness to get Michael elected as a councillor, and one day she would make a gracious mayoress. Jenny laughed suddenly. Mr. Brooke stopped and turned. "What's funny?" "It's too silly to explain," said Jenny, and hastily tacked on, "Isn't it getting wetter underfoot?" "I'm afraid so. There must be another stream to our left—maybe a gully down to the sea that's only filled when it rains. We'll have to make a detour. Getting tired?" "No, but I would like a cigarette." He gave her one, took one himself and lit them both. Wetness dripped around them, filtered daylight showed each to the other against a backcloth of prolific jungle green. "This time tomorrow," she said, "this will seem as though it could never have happened." "And this time next week," he remarked, taking a luxurious pull at his cigarette, "I shall have put this warm green country behind me. I'll be in Paris." "Paris!" she echoed.

He nodded. His smile at her was charming, experienced. "I'm on leave—started ten days ago. Ahead of me there's a month in Paris with friends, a spell in London, and after that whatever offers till my six months are up." "And then you go back to Kinoi?" "By then I may not mind going back to Kinoi. Just now, I can think of nothing better than to idle in Europe." "You don't strike me as the sort of man who'd enjoy being idle anywhere." "No? But then at your age you can't know much about men, can you?" he said conversationally. "Let's say that for six months I'll do all those things one can't do in a tropical island where the white women are few and night-clubs non-existent." Jenny smiled. "No better place to start than Paris! I hope you'll have fun." "What's your idea of fun—tennis parties and beach picnics?" "Even a walk can be fun with a good companion." "Really?" He tapped away ash. "Is this walk fun?" "I'm not sure," she said cautiously. "You're more of a guide than a companion." "I suppose so." He eyed her speculatively. "Where did you learn to be wary?" Jenny answered honestly, "I'm not, normally. It must be a natural reaction to your sort of man."

"I'll take that as a backhanded compliment! Shall we go on?" "I didn't mean to be rude," she said quickly. "I'm really sorry I've messed up the beginning of your holiday. It must have been annoying to have your arrangements upset, and even worse to be compelled to ditch your suits and shoes. You've every right to be a bear, if you wish." "Life's too short. And don't worry—I don't hurt easily. Let's move." Jenny followed him, and reflected that there might be a great deal about the man that one could like, if he were less impersonal. He was obviously quite impervious, and to the vulnerable there is nothing more tantalizing. He must be about thirty-three, and the fact that he was that age and unmarried, together with this visit of his to Paris. . . . Jenny's reflections went no further. She resolutely kept the couple of paces between herself and the man and hoped it would not be long before the forest ended. In fact, the detour took them more than an hour, and "by the time the air became purer, with a tang of salt, the sun had gone down behind the jungle and the sky which gradually became visible was tinged with the purple of dusk. Soil became sand, the conglomerate vegetation gave way to leaning palms, and then they broke through a screen of lavender-flowering tamarisks to find a deserted crescent of white sand scattered with a few coconut palms. Philip Brooke took a lungful of fresh air and examined his surroundings. "We still haven't arrived," he said, and nodded to the right. "The trader lives that way, beyond those trees. Even from here you can see the trunks are half-way deep in water, so it must be that other stream— the one that caused the detour." He looked down at her, saw her torn muddy skirt, her pale smile. "Look here, I'll leave

everything with you and go through the stream on my own. You can't come to any harm here, and you may as well rest while I get some help. The old chap is sure to have a boat that we can bring round for you." "I'd really rather come." His smile was derisive. "Scared?" "Hardly, at this stage! I feel I've given you enough trouble, that's all." "Then you'll stay here," he said. "Sit down and relax." He lifted the straps of the bundle from his shoulders and lowered it to the sand, dropped the satchel beside it. Jenny's coat he shook out and slung about her shoulders. Then he gave her a little push down on to the sand, and dropped his cigarette case and lighter into her lap. His jacket fell at her side. "Keep warm," he said, "and when you've smoked a cigarette right through you can start watching for the boat." She looked up at him, candidly. "You're very kind, you know." His expression was tolerant. "Don't bank on it. I get hot occasionally." "Do women make you angry?" she asked curiously. "Lord, no." He made no attempt to enlarge upon the statement, but said, "Give those wits of yours a rest. I won't be long." He went off with a long lazy stride, his feet sinking cavernously into the soft sand. Within three minutes he had disappeared into a thicket of bananas and palms, and Jenny leaned back stiffly on one hand

and stared at the white rim of the darkening sea. It didn't seem possible they could be only a few miles from Puleng. This trader on the next beach was probably a Dutchman; they usually were. Some of the Dutchmen had pretty Sumatran wives, though this one, presumably, had married one of his own kind. Odd how some people were able to settle happily in such places, living primitive lives and wanting nothing better. Mary Boden had once said it could be done if the couple were in love, but Jenny wondered. It was the children who had to count in the long run, and no normal parent would wish to deny them a sound education among other youngsters. And you couldn't really be happy if your children were being educated thousands of miles away in an environment you knew nothing about. It was good to see the stars after days and days of panoplied heavens and continuous battering rains; stars in a dusky sky were one of the special beauties of Sumatra. But that pilot had said it was still raining hard inland, which meant that this tip of the country, which lay low, would be swamped. There were no towns, but native villages existed among the trees, and many of the families must be having a thin time. With one foot against the other Jenny pushed off her wet shoes. She stretched her toes in the sun-warmed sand and thought how good it was going to be to get a hot meal, even if only of fish and rice. She would like some strong coffee after it, and dare she expect the luxury of a bath? It was going to be wonderful to sleep under a roof tonight perhaps tomorrow . . . well, traders knew everything about boat sailings, and from her experience at the plantation she judged them to be an obliging people who invariably had solutions to local problems. Considering the storms inland, the sea was calm. Gentle waves were murmuring up the beach, and there was a slight breeze fragrant with

tamarisk. The air was narcotic, her mind almost serene with the knowledge that she had done her best, in the circumstances, for Peter and Diane, and that very soon she would be welcomed and fed by a Dutch housewife. Philip was quicker than she expected. He loped across the beach and stood above her, breathing a little heavily, the khaki drill trousers and white shirt pasted to his muscular body. She jerked herself wide awake and sat up. "Oh, is the boat there?" He lowered himself pushed back drenched hair from his forehead and took his time about lighting a cigarette before he answered her. He spoke calmly. "There isn't any boat. In fact, there's no trader. His house is a shambles of broken logs and the beach is a frightful mess." Jenny moistened lips which had gone suddenly dry. Her tone was urgent. "Not a soul there at all? What about the store and the native village?" Still oddly unmoved, he said, "Part of the store is visible above water because it was built high, but the natives have naturally deserted. The trader must have seen disaster coming and cleared out in his boat. The two rivers—the Lumani and this other—must have met just above the beach is a frightful mess." "Good heavens," she whispered. Then: "What does it mean, exactly, for us?" She saw the wet, white-clad shoulders lift in the darkness, the flash of intensely white teeth as he answered evenly, "It means we spend the night right here. Maybe many nights."

"You mean . . . alone?" "With perhaps a few monkeys and hermit crabs." "It's not funny!" "You're tough and adventurous—you told me so yourself," he said mockingly. "Well, it seems you have a fair- sized adventure on your hands right now. You could be a lot worse off, remember. The pilot might have decided to give Puleng a miss, in which case you'd now be a little desperate with two famished and frightened children in tow. As it is all you have to worry about is where tomorrow's meals are coming from." Jenny didn't mention that meals were the least of it. She asked carefully, "Aren't you worried?" "Not yet. A plane couldn't land here, but there's always the hope of a boat." "But isn't there a coral reef?" A pause, during which he took a pull at his cigarette. "Yes, there is, but boats do find a way through. I've done it myself." By the change in his voice she knew he was half-amused. "Well, there you have it. We're marooned. I've tackled some queer situations, but never this one!" Had he been ordinarily gentle and kind Jenny might have felt safe. But Philip Brooke wasn't ordinary in any sense. The mere impact of his personality created a tension, and the prospect of being alone with him throughout days and nights created a string of disturbing possibilities. She remembered the air stewardess's raised eyebrows, the allusion to him as a charmer. She recollected things he had said himself, and

knew again an instinctive warning. He had dangerous good looks, was experienced; he had probably lived a practically womanless life at Kinoi for the past two or three years. And he was going to Paris! He pressed his cigarette into the sand and leaned towards their parcel of clothing. "I'll take some dry things to change into. When I come back we'll eat whatever's left in the sandwich box." In reaching out, his hand brushed hers and she swiftly drew back. "Don't get jumpy," he said. "This sort of situation isn't so romantic as it's made out to be. In a crowd, you and I might not even notice each other. It's just as well to keep a sense of proportion." After which he got up and walked away. For a few minutes after he had gone Jenny didn't move. She was finding it impossible to take in all the implications of their plight. She looked at the black silhouettes of the palms, at the sea, now lit with coins of silver, at the pale sand spreading back into the quiet of the forest. She was cut off here with an unpredictable stranger. He had said that in a crowd they might not even notice each other, but Jenny knew better. Almost certainly that arrogant glance of his would pass over Jenny Manson, but there wasn't a woman anywhere who could come within a dozen yards of him and not be conscious of his magnetism.' In any case, they weren't in a crowd! They were alone, quite alone, on a tropic beach.

CHAPTER TWO THE morning mist was melting in the strengthening sunshine. The music of small breakers mingled with the rustle of the palms and a pink glow lay over the beach, rendering it sweet and harmless. The smell of woodsmoke drifted to Jenny's nostrils, and she awakened without opening her eyes. In a long moment the happenings of yesterday flooded her memory, and it was with great care that she at last looked out from the cocoon in which she lay. Well, it was bright and cloudless, at any rate; so bright, in fact, that it was impossible to discern the flames of the little fire. What she could see of the ocean was blue and inviting, and from this angle she seemed to have the beach to herself. She struggled up out of the mass of the rug and two coats, raked fingers through her hair and stretched luxuriously. Yes, she was alone, and there seemed to be no reason at all why she should not slip quickly into her swimsuit and take a dip; no other way of washing, in any case. A few minutes later she was testing the cool waters of the lagoon, regretting that she had omitted to salvage a cap from her suitcase, but diving nevertheless into the gentle waves. Floating, she felt she had come near to paradise. At the plantation it was invariably hot and steamy, and though there was a river nearby, no one swam in its treacly waters. Jennie had been to the shore before but had never met anything like this tamarisk- scented beach bordered by the coral-enclosed lagoon. How marvellous it would be, if it were not a prison! The thought made her scan the beach once more. The fire meant that he was about somewhere, and perhaps she had better not linger too long before dressing. The sun was warm on her back as she paddled up the beach and she was soon dry enough to slip on one of the

clean frocks. She rubbed her hair and was using a comb when Philip appeared from the trees, carefully carrying a blackened pot. As he neared, Jenny realized the pot was full of water. "Hallo," he said, as he bent to set the pot over the flames. "I thought you'd gone to sleep for good. Do you always sleep like a baby?" "Good morning," she said with reserve, and ignored the question. "Did you get a swim?" "Yes, before it was light. I saw you down there just now and gave you time to make yourself pretty." Satisfied with the lodging of the pot, he straightened and dusted off his hands. "Your hair looks quite different when it's wet," he commented. "The color reminds me of a caramel my cook-boy used to contrive from coconut milk and sugar." "How flattering," she returned briefly. Then: "What do we have for breakfast—bananas and hot water?" He waved towards the shade of the palms. "I caught some fish; we'll toast them. Can't offer you coffee for breakfast, but there's a chance we may have some later." "Coffee?" He nodded. "A few other delicacies, too. I've been near the store and there seems to be quite a lot of canned stuff on the higher shelves. Unfortunately, most of the labels have gone, but I did find a floating label from a coffee tin. There are plenty of utensils lying around— nothing very elegant, but they'll serve." Her eyes sparkled. "Do we raid the store?"

"We certainly do." He gave her his sea-green stare, and smiled suddenly. "You're already finding compensations. Pity you didn't bring your diary along!" "It doesn't matter. I've a good memory." She pressed back her hair and slid the comb into her toilet case. She bent and shook out his coat. "Why did I have the rug and two coats? I didn't need yours." He shrugged. "Better to be too warm than cold. You needed that sleep." Barely pausing, he went on, "As soon as this water boils we'll set it aside to cool; it's our drinking water for the day. Like some coconut milk?" "Yes, please. And seeing that you've already done a day's work, I'll cook breakfast." She hesitated, and added, "You don't look disgruntled, but you ought to be fed up with the sight of me." "Because you've postponed my trip to Europe?" He considered her. "I never strain into the future and I always get what I can out of the present. It's not a bad philosophy. You should try it." Fleetingly, she met his glance. "You're not the sort to feel things deeply, are you?" His tone was tolerant. "I don't get emotionally involved, if that's what you mean. You're too young and feminine to believe that life can be good without sentimental entanglements, but it's true all the same. Sentimentality hangs on. Romance should be taken in small, freshly- mixed doses." Jenny laughed. "I'd say the prescription is successful with you, anyway. In your position I'd be fighting mad." "Ah, but you're a woman—maybe a spoiled one. During the last eighteen months you've probably had far too much male attention." He moved away negligently. "I'll get that drink for you."

Jenny was becoming accustomed to his being pleasant and irritating at the same time. He puzzled her because she had never met anyone like him before; it occurred to her that with such a man one could never be bored because he stirred one to imagination and conjecture. She could see him in a room full of people, vital and towering, dropping a lazy smile on the nearest girl while other women asked their companions who he was. And it wasn't difficult to visualize him lording it in the island of Kinoi. Between the two, though, there was a gap, and it was a little exciting to think that this interlude on the coral coast might provide a clue to it. Unlike herself, he seemed to have accepted the fact that they were stranded, possibly for some days. While she cooked the fish in a flat tin he shaped a couple of wooden forks with his pocket knife, and when she was ready to serve the well-browned morsels, clean squares of banana leaf lay nearby to be used as plates. They finished off with bananas and more of the refreshing milk poured from a hole in the coconut. Heat was gathering over the little beach; the mist was gone. The arc of trees was still against the sky, dark green threaded with the vivid flowers of Flame of the Forest. Lower, within the arc, the dainty tamarisk weaved gently, needing only a zephyr to set it in motion. Philip opened his cigarette case, counted the contents and snapped it shut again. "Eleven," he said. "Better save them." "Smoke the odd one," she suggested. "We'll share it," he said, "but not till we've done some work. I wish you were a boy." "I wish it myself," she said a little tartly.

"I'm not being unfair. It's just that it'll take two of us to get those stores—one to get in and hand them out and the other to carry them to dry sand. Let's go." It was not till they had waded through a shallower part of the gully and were standing on the adjacent beach that Jenny realized the devastation brought by the floods. The sand was washed into deep runnels and covered with mud and dead vegetation. There were battered cooking pots, bundles of thatching, a drowned chicken or two, and the palms stood in deep hollows, their hairy trunks festooned with grasses and torn moss. The trader's house was a sorry heap of logs and reeds, but the store's adobe walls still stood, though part of the thatch had been ripped away. The water had subsided somewhat, leaving a scum at knee level, and standing on tiptoe, Jenny could see through the small window a sight that made her shudder. She stared, fascinated. "Is that grass grown up through the water?" she whispered. No, it's spilt rice. Looks eerie, doesn't it? See the tins— dozens of them!" Jenny looked. "Do you want me to go in?" "Not if you're frightened, but it's the easier job." "Of course I'm not frightened," she lied cheerfully. "How do we break the door?" "No need to do anything so desperate. I'll put you up on the roof and let you down through the hole in the thatch to the counter under the window. You open the window and pass out the goods."

It was almost as simple as it sounded. Philip held her firmly and guided her till her bare feet found the solid counter. He let go and steadied her, and when she had found a strong beam to grasp he leapt down outside the window, ready to take whatever she passed out. Beans," she said of the first half-dozen tins. One still has a label and they're all alike. What do you suppose these fat tins contain?" "No idea. We'll take a few of every shape and size. Those tall cans on the other wall might hold coffee. They're similar to a tropical pack we get at Kinoi." "No square tins of meat," she lamented. "Only this big cutlet-shaped thing. Do you suppose it's ham?" "Yes, it's good stuff. Are you sure there are no more?" "Quite sure. The shelf round the corner has candles and matches. Will the matches be any good?" "They'll dry out. Thanks. Now stay where you are and I'll come up for you." But Jenny was beginning to enjoy herself. "There's a shelf at the end that I haven't investigated. The counter goes quite near, so it's safe to look." "Leave it," he commanded. "Stay where it's light!" "But I think there are plates and cups." "We'll get them later. Stay there!" But Jenny couldn't resist those cheap, highly-patterned pieces of china. She moved along the counter, saw, happily, that there was

another jagged hole in the roof to give light to that end of the store, and reached for a cup. The next moment the light was gone and she looked up. For seconds she gazed at the triangular brown face, then she let out a scream. The face disappeared, timbers cracked and Philip's feet thudded behind her. His hands on her shoulders were steel. She pointed shakily to the roof. "A native—a Malay, I think. Sorry I yelled, but he unnerved me for a minute." "I thought it was at least a rat," he said. "Perhaps next time you'll do as you're told. Let's get out quickly and find that boy. He's just what I need." He got out first and heaved her up beside him before dropping down into the muddy water. As he took her weight Jenny realized that they would not have to search for the Malay. He was standing beside the pyramid of tins, pressing his hands together and looking anxious. "Tabek, tuan," he said in his small high voice. Philip answered him in the pidgin Malay that is used throughout the South Seas, and Jenny listened to the conversation, gathering very little except that the Malay was pleased with what he heard. She saw him nod and bow and laughingly indicate the stores, and when Philip patted his brown shoulder she knew they had concluded a bargain. "That's a relief," Philip said to her. "His name is Kaikai and he has a family taking shelter in the forest. He wants to work for us, I've told him to begin by bringing the supplies over to our beach. I'll take a few tins myself, and get the site ready." Jenny bent to scoop up some matches and candles, but Philip said softly, "Don't shock the lad. You're the memtuan."

The rest of the day was busy yet somehow dreamlike. From the ruins of the trader's dwelling enough logs were salvaged to set up in the shade of the palms the shape of a house with a pointed roof. Kaikai cut wild banana leaves, secured their thick stems at the apex and gradually formed a dense covering, so that the inside of the house was like a roofed cage. There was no time today to lace the walls with reeds and grasses. The man concerned himself with cutting and trimming the branches he would use tomorrow. Philip arranged the stores and covered them, repaired a chair he had found among the debris on the beach, and collected enough flat pieces of wood to make the framework of a small bed. Watching them both, Jenny was enchanted and infuriated. The house was forming so swiftly and efficiently, but neither Kaikai nor Philip would let her do much. The Malay, though, had triumphantly brought her a soaked bolt of flowered cotton from one of the drawers under the store counter, and this she unwound, washed in the sea and spread smoothly on the sand to dry. With nail scissors she cut a square for a table cloth and smaller ones for napkins, and the rest was re-folded till she could decide what to do with it. The tinned foods were disappointing. There seemed to be endless jam, peas, beans and soup concentrates, some coffee and little else. For the evening meal, just as the sun went down, she made soup and opened the can of corned beef she had brought from the plantation. Kaikai took his share away with him into the trees, but after he had eaten he came back to say good night, and to promise to return tomorrow with his family. Night came swiftly. Moths and fireflies danced in the firelight, the sky became painted with stars, and with complete darkness came the faint roar of rushing waters.

"Still raining inland," commented Philip, "but we should be fairly safe here unless we get a storm of our own." She looked at his strong dark face tinged with fireglow. Lying back like that, his shirt-collar open to reveal the hard brown throat and one bare brown knee drawn up, he looked as enigmatic and powerful as a pirate. He appeared at ease, as a tiger might; at ease, but ready to spring into action. Something made her say quickly, "Do you think it will be long before a boat shows up?" "There's no proper port on this coast, so we shan't see anything big, and the river boats are likely to be tied up till calmer weather." "Couldn't Kaikai get a message through so someone?" "He's no better equipped than we are. The poor blighter was overjoyed to find a white man here." He smiled. "They have the odd idea that a white boss is a kind of insurance." "Does he know this coast?" "Hardly at all; his home was an inland village. I'm hoping that he and his relatives will be able to make a boat for us, but even if they do, it won't be seaworthy— only a kueh for fishing." She sat forward, cross-legged, and let sand run through her fingers. Head bent, she said, "It wouldn't be so bad if the days were longer." He shifted and his tone altered. "So bad? Not going highly-strung on me, are you?" She smiled faintly. "No. It won't seem so queer when Kaikai is here with his family. They'll chatter and sing."

"There's nothing to stop you trilling, if you want to." "It would be hard on you. Mr. Brooke ..." He laughed indolently. "Yes, Miss Manson?" "What's the name of this place?" "This particular beach? It probably has a Sumatran name meaning 'Place of the Tamarisks'." "I'm going to call it Tamarisk Lagoon." "Too cumbersome—it ties your tongue in the middle. Make it Tamarisk Bay. And seeing that the house is likely to be three-parts banana leaf, we could christen it 'Yellow Fingers,. Cryptic, what? I think we've earned that cigarette." "You have. I don't need any. I'm not much of a smoker." "We'll be reckless and have one each." They lit up and smoked in silence. What, Jenny wondered, would such a man be thinking about at a time like this? About his leave, and the friends he would see in Paris? Had he in mind any particular friend, someone who meant relaxation and pleasure? She remembered, suddenly, a small ornamental piece of jade that he had dropped into his pocket when they were abandoning their suitcases at Puleng. The little carved green figure had been meant for someone, she was sure. It was the sort of expensive yet impersonal gift one could imagine him sliding, with a teasing laugh, into a woman's handbag. It wouldn't commit him in any way to talk about himself, but she felt sure he never would. He was merely living, without too much trouble, through a hiatus in his plans. And he wasn't curious about

Jenny Manson, either. Because they were thrown together he would protect her and see that she got enough to eat; once this period was over he would pass on and even forget what she looked like. A probability which Jenny found vaguely vexing.

The native family that came out of the trees next morning altered the whole aspect of the beach. The bare white crescent of sand became inhabited by about fifteen people of varying ages who were so accustomed to renewing their flimsy dwellings and starting house all over again that they set about it today methodically but without haste. Of the five women, two were fairly young, two middle- aged, and one a wrinkled matriarch who sat weaving reed mats; they wore bedraggled sarongs and bajus, but their brown faces were happy as they talked and worked. The men were like Kaikai, small, wiry and muscular and bare to the waist. Only the two toddlers played; the other four children cut poles, thatched and fished with their elders. A boy of about twelve helped Kaikai to finish the walls of the tuan's hut, and later that afternoon the same boy shyly brought Jenny three reed mats—two small ones for covering the glassless windows and a larger one for the floor. Yielding sand is not an ideal flooring, of course, and one layer of reed matting can hardly be compared with a good carpet, but Jenny padded about happily in the cool interior, and it was not long before she had prodded a series of small sticks into the walls above the windows and hung strips of the flowered cotton to serve as curtains. The camp bed, now complete with the inevitable grass thonging, was covered with another strip of the material, and that, thought Jenny firmly, was quite enough of that particular pattern. She gave the rest of the bolt to the Malay for his womenfolk. She went down for a swim, and when she returned a rough table had appeared in .the house, the top the warped remnant of the trader's

dining table, the legs smoothed logs. With exuberance, Jenny washed one of the smaller pots and broke off a few forest flowers. They wouldn't last long, she knew, but standing back in the doorway to review her work she experienced a throb of almost pure happiness. A house, a bed, a chair, a stool, a table, a mat and a pot of flowers; and it hadn't taken much more than a day to get them. She wished Philip would come before it was dark to see the room as she saw it. It seemed to be tacitly understood between them that she should keep away from the trader's house, where, with Kaikai's primitive tools, Philip worked most of the time. Because firemaking with damp wood was tedious and too smoky for cooking, he had decided to put the rusty steel stove into condition and bring it across the beach, but apparently it was proving a more ticklish operation than he had anticipated. So Jenny prepared the table for supper, laying the cloth and placing flowers back upon it, heaping one plate with bananas and another with wild nuts, emptying tinned peas ready for heating and, eventually, lighting two candles and securing each in its own grease to the centre of a saucer. In candlelight, she decided, the room looked even better. The problem was, what were they to eat as the main dish? For breakfast they had again eaten fish, and at lunch time Philip had sent word that he would be eating fish and cassava bread with the Malay boys. He wouldn't want fish again this evening, yet there was only the one tin of meat. Jenny went out to the food store, lifted aside the ground-sheet that covered it and selected the tin that was shaped like a small ham. Philip had suggested that there might be other tinned meats below water level at the store, and in any case, one could only eat the stuff once, whether tonight or some other night. So she took the tin into the house and used the crude but effective opener. The ham gurgled deliciously on to a plate, the aspic glistened. With the big knife from

the plane she trimmed off the fat and exposed the succulent pink meat. Carefully, she covered the eatables with one of her own thin blouses. Everything was ready; almost everything. She took the mirror from her handbag and scanned her face. Gracious, what a sight! Cheeks that looked browner and more countrified even than the short untidy hair, and she still had sand in her eyebrows from the swim. The sea water had given her a salty bloom that might be un- noticeable by day but was definitely unattractive by candle- glow. Quickly, she moistened a handkerchief with drinking water and cleaned her face. Then, almost without thinking, she went through the ritual of make-up; lotion, powder, lipstick and a flick of the tiny brush over brows and lashes. Incredible that this should be the first time she had used cosmetics since leaving the plantation! Could it possibly be only three days since she had said goodbye to Tim and Mary Boden? The rubber trees and the big white bungalow, the houses of the Boden's friends, the small town of Boekarta where rickshaw tricycles plied and charming people sold batik and clay figures and unending produce, seemed a whole world away. Here on this beach they were, in fact, islanded. Considered soberly, it was a thought to make the heart turn. But Jenny did not consider it soberly for long. She combed her hair and pushed it into its sallow natural waves, killed a couple of mosquitoes, and tried to think of some way of hanging her frocks instead of leaving them folded among the heap of clothes, which for want of a better place they kept on the stool. She heard native grunts and Philip giving orders, and from the doorway she saw the stove, a moderate-sized, old- fashioned affair on curved legs, being set up in the lee of the house; the black pipe of the chimney reached higher than the roof.

"It's going to be much better than a fire," she said admiringly. "If we had flour I could make bread." "The Malays have a little cassava and manioc, but we'll do without it as long as we can; they've been living thinly." He looked down at his hands. "I'm pretty filthy; I think I'll take a dip." He went into the house for his trunks, raised an eyebrow at the flowers and candles but made no comment. She was still standing expectantly in the doorway when he made to pass her, and perhaps it was her attitude that brought him to a pause. He. looked down at her, pointedly appraised the young face faintly bloomed with powder, the reddened lips, the carelessly-neat hair. "Got a date?" he asked. She colored slightly,. "I thought it was about time I tried to be normal. No objection, have you?" "No, but I thought it would take you longer to get round to it. Did you put it on for me?" Heat rose in Jenny's throat. "Why should I? I'm surprised you've even noticed. I can't change for the evening, so I did the next best thing. It pleases me, whether you like it or not." "I don't dislike it, brownie," he said equably. "I was merely interested in the psychology of the thing. You'll find that as soon as those Malay women up the beach feel established they'll start painting up for their men, too. And they're married." With which he walked out. Jenny didn't know whether to be angry or to laugh.. She compromised, and was still smiling when she went outside to heat and stir the soup. The air was glorious and there was a little more wind tonight. Up there near the trees the natives were cooking their

interminable fish and smoking some weed which didn't smell at all bad. Would Philip come to smoking it, she wondered. Did he miss his whisky and soda, unlimited cigarettes? Perhaps not yet, but when he did he might not be so easy to get along with. Not that he was all that easy now; he could be too devastingly frank. But there was that about him which kept her unafraid. A different sort of man would have been ever conscious of the unconventionality of their situation; Philip appeared never to think about it, which might be unflattering but was certainly soothing. He came up glittering from the sea and went inside to change. When he came out, in fresh shorts and shirt, he smelled of the sea and after-shaving lotion. "Not cooking any fish? he asked. "You've had it twice today. I was sure you wouldn't want it again." "You can eat anything when you're hungry. If the waters go down we may be able to hunt a wild pig, but till then it'll be fish every day. The locals eat it at nearly every meal." "But we're not locals and we're not here for ever. Will you carry the soup inside?" She went first, and drew the covering from the dishes. Philip set down the pot of soup, cleared the stool and placed it for himself. It was only after he had seen her seated and taken his own place that he noticed the compact little ham. He pushed the flowers aside in order to view it more clearly. "That's fine," he said coolly. "The only meat we had." "Why worry?" she said with determined cheerfulness. "We may be rescued tomorrow."

"And we may not see a boat for a month; You opened the corned beef last night—this could have waited a few days." "You did say there might be more meat at the store." "Not with any conviction. Even you should have realized that when a man pulls out for good in his own small vessel he'll take all the rations he can, and the meat will be stowed first. He probably overlooked than tin of ham, but not much else that was good food value." "What difference does it make whether we eat it now or in a few days?" she demanded, exasperated. "Whenever it's opened it's bound to be half wasted, because two people couldn't finish it up, but we'll manage two meals from it, and Kaikai can have the rest." He started on his soup. "You should have used more sense." "All right," she flashed back, "so I should. I opened the beastly tin for you, not for me! And I thought you might feel as I did—that in finishing off the house and getting things shipshape we'd accomplished something rather special today and could be forgiven for celebrating!" A quiver in her voice made him look at her. Then his mouth moved in a faintly mocking smile. "Lipstick and a tin of ham; you did your best with what you had. Come on, now, get on with your food. Since the tin is open we'll make a good meal from it." But for tonight the edge had gone from Jenny's enjoyment of the house. When bedtime came and he let down the matting over the doorway and called good night as he moved away, she was relieved to know herself alone, really alone at last. Next day things were more settled and there was less activity on the beach. The two Malay houses, rather more raggedly constructed

than the tuan's, were set up on stilts and surrounded by a crazy log fence which was designed to keep in the two youngest children and the few scrawny chickens which had moulted badly and might never lay another egg. The men, with Philip, were planning a boat, and it was eventually decided to fell and hollow a tree for the purpose; this was a simple if lengthy operation and needed few tools. The two younger boys waded into the lagoon and fished with wide grass baskets, and the Malay women washed out their clothes in the gully and hung them on their fence to dry. The atmosphere was homely, but Jenny was beginning to find it lonely. If she could have spoken to the Malays she would not have minded, but all she could exchange with them was smiles and nods, and even when they brought their gifts of nuts and plantains and wild mangoes she could do no more than show her pleasure. Two or three days passed in this way. Jenny washed her ownclothes and Philip's, dried them as smoothly as possible and put them away. She bathed each morning, found unusual seashells, collected coconut milk and set it in the corner of the house to keep cool, boiled the daily quota of drinking water, cooked fish and heated tinned vegetables, and for long periods she stared out to sea, wondering if she would ever see a funnel, or even the rattan sail of a fishing boat. Once, she did see a dim shape on the horizon and jumped excitedly to her feet. But in moments the shape was swallowed by haze and she was watching only the deep swell of the Malacca Strait beyond the reef. The lagoon, in its cradle of pinkish-grey coral, was absorbing. Swimming, you could see clear through to the bottom, where anemones opened and closed their purple or scarlet or yellow petals and green shells. There were other, unidentifiable molluscs, some of them incredible in shape and color. And, of course, the little tropical

fishes darted everywhere. The really big fish basked close to the reef, where it was also possible to see giant clams resting on the coral shelves and an occasional octopus. Jenny hadn't swum quite as far as the reef; she was waiting for a low tide. If was after she had collected a few shells one day and had sunk down in the shade of the house to watch the sea that she remembered the book of poems she had pocketed from her suitcase, that day at Puleng. She fetched it and sat down again, let it fall open naturally at her favourite passage of Endymion. Her lips formed the phrase, "And lo! from, opening clouds, I saw emerge The loveliest moon that ever silvered o'er A shell for Neptune's goblet." Lovely words, that took her back to her little white bedroom adjoining those of Diane and Peter. Would she ever see it again, sit there in the balcony and browse lazily over Keats? Her other books were there, novels, biographies, a music companion, a few plays, Jane Austen and Shaw. What wouldn't she give to have them here, to be able to read and really relax her mind! Come to think of it she had done most of her reading at this time in the afternoon, while Mary and the children rested in their rooms. The houseboy had always brought her tea especially early, so that she could read and sip luxuriously for nearly an hour. Tea! Jenny lay back and closed her eyes. She had made brews of black coffee from one of the tins but found it undrinkable without sugar and milk; coconut milk hardly improved it. What bliss was implicit in the word tea! Tea and a cigarette after a swim; tea and fancy biscuits with a book; tea at midnight after a party. Tea at any old time in this hot thirsty country.

She felt the sand yield rather violently near her elbow, and opened her eyes. Philip was standing there, looking down at her quizzically. "Lotus-eater," he said. "Are you bored?" "No, I was having ecstatic dreams about tea." "Everyday things become important when you can't get them, don't they?" He slipped down beside her, saw the book and looked at its spine. "I didn't know you had this with you." "I dropped it into my case when I was packing at the plantation. If I'd thought we might be stranded here I'd have brought a few more. Do you read much?" "Quite a bit. I've never gone much for Keats, though." He flipped the pages, found himself at the flyleaf, and read the inscription. He murmured it aloud: " 'Every happiness, my dear Jenny. Lewis.'" A pause. "Well, well. Who's Lewis?" His inflection needled Jenny. "A man I know." "What sort of man—young or old?" "Around your age." The blue-green eyes were just slightly narrowed, the smile provocative. "You sound defensive. Tell me more about him." "He's the doctor at the plantation that Tim Boden manages. Dr. Lewis Garve. We happened to arrive there more or less at the same time, and as we'd both just left England we became friendly. He knew I liked Keats, so he gave me this copy for my last birthday." "How nice." But he sounded satirical. "Every happiness, my dear Jenny.' Yet he let you set out alone with those two children."

"Lewis knew nothing about it," she said at once. "He's attached to two plantations, and he happened to be away at the other one when the Bodens decided I should try to get through with the children. "Won't he be frantic, when he hears about you?" "He's bound to be a little anxious; he's that sort." Jenny picked up the book from where he had let it fall, and held it closed in one hand. "No one will worry once Peter's letter gets through to his mother." "Are you sure the boy won't tell them you were left alone at Puleng with a man?" "These are difficult times," she returned with spirit. "What if he does?" An exaggerated shrug. "Won't be too good for the doctor's peace of mind, will it? He may trust you, but he can't possibly trust a man he doesn't know." "Lewis is an understanding sort of person and he believes in the essential goodness of human nature." "So?" The dark eyebrows rose. "He's human himself, isn't he?" "Of course. What are you getting at?" "Nothing," he answered carelessly. "I don't envy your doctor." "You don't envy anyone," she said with a trace of acid. "In your opinion Mr. Philip Brooks has learned the art of successful lone living." "I only meant that I don't envy him his present state of mind," he said mildly. "Pity we can't get a message through to him, but then if

we could, we could possibly deliver you in person." He leaned back. "Was he the reason you thought you might return to the plantation instead of following the children to Singapore?" "The children are safe with their aunt. My only friends in Sumatra are at Bokarta," she said stubbornly. "Make what you like of that." "Boekarta," he said musingly. Then, after a moment, "Why didn't you tell me you were engaged? It would have simplified a few things." "I'm riot. What's a book of poems, between friends?" His smile was lazy and tantalizing. "But he also wished you every happiness, my dear Jenny. Don't tell me he's, never looked into those warm hazel eyes of yours and refrained from telling you he loved you." "All right. I won't." "Did you turn him down?" "No." "But you're not engaged?" "We're friends," she said firmly. "In this country he's the best friend I have." "Fine," he jeered softly. "You'll make a good doctor's wife, even if the man is a little unexciting." "How can you possibly know his character? "Elementary," he said. "You've been in Sumatra eighteen months and known him most of that time, yet you're still free. A man of

vim, in similar circumstances, would have had you under lock and key for at least a year." "One doesn't hasten into marriage as ... as you might stride into one of your love affairs!" There was a brief silence. Jenny knew that he looked at her and guessed his glance to be maddeningly cool and sardonic. Yet his tone, when he spoke, seemed to have crisped somewhat. "One doesn't stride into a love affair, little one. The scene sets itself, the woman is willing and time stands still for a while. That's all there is to it." He pushed up from the sand. "Come for a swim. I'll teach you the Australian crawl!"

CHAPTER THREE As A RESULT of that talk with Philip, Jenny found herself thinking seriously about Lewis Garve for the first time since she had left the plantation. She thought of the way he had looked when she first met him at dinner in the Bodens' house, of the light brown hair, the longish face, the blue hesitant eyes. That evening they had talked about England and the voyage out—he had arrived about a month later than Jenny—and he had invited her out for a drive the following week-end. Of necessity, seeing that the English-speaking population of Boekarta had numbered less than a dozen, she and Lewis had met more and more often; quite soon, invitations had coupled them. Lewis Garve had come out to Sumatra because he had connections with one of the plantation directors and a deep interest in tropical diseases. He had been given a pleasant house in a highly ornamental garden but did most of his work at the two plantation clinics. He was slow and conscientious, and happened to have a Dutch assistant with similar qualities; a fact which Jenny considered he did not entirely appreciate. She liked Marta van Haarden and had often admired her medical skill while deprecating her off-hand manner. The months had drifted by swiftly and happily. In the mornings Jenny had taught the two children, then she had lunched and rested till four, when once again she had taken charge of the children till their supper time. Three or four nights a week there would be guests for dinner, and at the week-ends there were more guests, or she was invited to another house. And invariably Lewis was there, attentive, obviously growing fairly fond but carefully taking his time to stabilize the friendship. No, there was nothing really exciting about Lewis, but he certainly wasn't dull.

Jenny had found herself going just a little way to meet him. Their interests had dovetailed, they danced well together, had become quite a good tennis double, and, perhaps most important, their friendship had been endorsed by the Bodens. Mary had said openly that a doctor was a good solid investment as a husband, and Jenny had agreed. Lewis, indeed, might almost be termed a gilt-edged marriage investment, for his principles were strict, his position impeccable, and he had the understanding kindness that goes with good medical practice. Into the bargain he was not at all bad-looking. Oh, yes; the woman who married Lewis Garve would acquire a tender and devoted husband, a comfortable home and servants, an all-round easy life. But though Jenny liked him more than she had ever liked any man, she could never really imagine him as closer than a dependable pleasant companion. The matter came to a head one night when they were watching ronggeng dancing from a bamboo boat on the river. The boatman had waded ashore and she and Lewis were alone, looking at the sedate, sinuous writhings of gold-clad young men and women, she leaning back on the thin boom, and he standing beside her. The dance had ended, and she had let out a rapt sigh. "I don't wonder you always sleep so well, in spite of the heat," Lewis said, smiling at her. "You give everything you've got to whatever turns up." "It was beautiful," she murmured, "so peculiar to the country, and somehow cultured. You feel they were dancing like that a thousand years ago." "I expect they were. I wish they were as keen on medicine as they are on dancing." "Dr. van Haarden says the dancing helps to keep them fit."

"She may be right; she often is. Are you glad we came down here this evening?" "Of course, and the boat was a wonderful idea. The dancers look even better at this distance, with the firelight all about them. Don't you just love the nights at this time of the year? He gave a glance at the spangled sky. "They're not bad. I like any time of the day when I'm with you." This should have warned Jenny, because it was a rather more frank compliment than he was accustomed to paying her. But she was bemused by the dancing and the scented night, and happy to know that he found so much pleasure in her company. So when he took her hand she did not withdraw it but smiled back at him, and said, "How nice. I like being with you, too." "Enough to marry me?" Jenny went suddenly still. The pause stretched, while she groped for support of a kind that didn't exist. Occasionally she had told herself that this might happen some time, but now that it had she felt as if she had been led blindfold down an unfamiliar lane. She managed a small laugh. "Is this a discussion or a proposal?" "Quite definitely a proposal. We've known each other a year, but I was pretty certain from the beginning that I wanted to marry you." His tone lowered. "You're sweet and intelligent—we like the same things. You must know that I love you." Her tongue stole out to moisten dry lips. "I don't know what to say, Lewis. I like you very much, but marriage is such a huge step. I . . . feel one ought to be terribly certain."

"And you aren't?" Very slightly his fingers tightened over hers. "Is there anyone else you care for?" It was a relief to be able to answer truthfully, "Of course not! I'd have told you." "Then that's all right. We're more than well acquainted, but perhaps you need a little longer. I won't hurry you, Jenny, but as soon as you're ready I want you as my wife. I guarantee to make you very happy." "You're such a dear," she said impulsively. "I wish I knew how I felt myself, so that I could explain. It's just that ... ." "I know," he said. "I half expected you to be like this the first time I mentioned it, but now you know my feelings and they'll become part of you. Don't worry about it, my dear. Just slip into the habit of knowing that some time fairly soon we shall belong to each other. I do love you, Jenny." She would have liked to reply, wholeheartedly, "I love, you, too." But to her dismay she was realizing it wasn't true. Propinquity and liking simply weren't enough. You can't love somebody by merely wanting to. She was profoundly thankful to see the boatman wading back to the boat. After that night her relationship with Lewis had changed, but not greatly. He was rather more proprietorial, consulted her when new curtains were needed in his sitting-room, and made her try his new car for comfort before he bought it. But he was a patient man, and sure enough of himself and Jenny to be sharp with Marta van Haarden when she had questioned the wisdom of his decision to marry someone who was not truly in love with him.

Jenny had overheard that particular conversation one morning, when she had gone to the clinic with a message from Tim. Marta's voice was cold and cynical, Lewis' abrupt. He'd said, "It's no concern of your, Marta. You're a medical woman, not a psychologist." To which the alien voice had replied: "I said you would not like me for interfering; and you don't. Very well, doctor, the subject is finished!" Marta had come through the waiting-room without seeing Jenny; the dark head was held high, the finely moulded cheekbones were stained with red. Jenny's face had burned, too, and she would have escaped if Lewis had not smilingly appeared. For a few days after that she had felt rather miserable, but Lewis was no different and her next meeting with Marta van Haarden had been almost cordial, so that gradually she nearly forgot that the two had had the sharp exchange. Thinking over Lewis' proposal one night, she tried to analyse why she couldn't marry him. He was so suitable in every way, such a good match, that there must surely be something missing in herself. It wasn't that she didn't want to fall in love. Good heavens, no! Perhaps that was it, she thought, a queer thumping in her breast. She wanted to fall headlong in love, not to be coerced and wheedled into it. Lewis was too disciplined, too ready to wait till she felt the stirring of her pulses, whereas what she really wanted was to be stirred, to know as her glance collided with another's that this was it! And she could never feel that now, with Lewis. But sometimes she hoped, and at all times she was contented in his company. The floods had deluged him with work, forced him to travel up river and leave Marta in charge. Jenny had seen him now

and then, for a few minutes, but there was no time or inclination for private discussion. She and the Bodens had staged within the house, far too anxious about the children to think of anything else. Now, at Tamarisk Bay, Jenny did wonder how Lewis had reacted to her departure. He would be angry and concerned, of course, but he knew her capable of taking care of herself in Singapore, which was probably where he imagined her to be. Even about people he cared for he was rational, which Jenny admitted to herself ruefully, was one of his characteristics that she couldn't bear. She didn't want to be rationalized; she wanted to be adored and mastered, to have tremendous demands made of her, to be possessed by a love so strong it made her feel weak. She didn't want a cool green hillside where she could rest in the shade; she wanted brilliance, the hot wind from a volcano! Odd that she had not had such thoughts at the plantation. There, she had only known uncertainty, perhaps a vague uneasiness. But at Boekarta, of course, she had no one with whom to compare the admirable Lewis!

They had been a week at Tamarisk Bay before Jenny swam out to the reef. At low tide there were great humps of coral that stood twenty feet out of the water, and one morning Jenny discovered that from the slopes of one of them she could look inland and see the blue peaks of distant 'mountains above the forest. The thought that they could not even be the same mountains she saw from the plantation was awe-inspiring, yet it was good to feel that she was not on an island; not because she would be afraid to live on an island in such circumstances, but because the fact of there being a hinterland to this stretch of coast somehow made their situation more orthodox. It was odd, but she was beginning to feel a need to cling to the conventions.

Over a lunch of baked fish and little squashy pineapples, she told Philip, about the mountains. "Yes, I've seen them," he said. "We tried out the boat yesterday." "Where? You didn't tell me." "We broke through the reef from the next beach and came straight back. This morning we've been fishing off the paddles, and we'll have another go this afternoon." "Let me go with you!" He grinned at her. "You stay put, little one. I'm taking two boys and you'd be in the way." 'But I promise I wouldn't!" "I'm afraid you couldn't help it. It's just another try-out, and if it's successful you can go for a trip tomorrow." "May I come and watch you push off?" "No harm in that, so long as there's a boy with you to get you back safely." "I can manage the gully by myself. You know," she looked at him curiously, "you're something of a paradox— the lone, serene eagle fussing over a sparrow." "You're not a sparrow," he said. "You're more like a sandpiper. Did you know that a sandpiper is one of the most difficult birds to snare?" "Why, thanks," she said appreciatively. "That's a word of praise I'll always remember!"

He laughed. "You're a good scout," he said, "and not in the least drab, as good scouts so often are. What are you doing this afternoon?" She considered. "I'd like to do some cooking. Normally, I'm not much of a bread-eater, but having gone without it for a week I feel as if I could eat a whole loaf." "Poor little honey-brown." He spoke teasingly, but his glance became keen. "Now that the boat is pretty well ready I'll get you a change of diet." "I'm not grousing," she returned quickly. "On the whole I think I've been awfully lucky." "In what way?" "Well, as you once reminded me, I could have been stranded with the children at Puleng." "Instead of which you've had to take a step which may have changed the whole course of your life." The nape of Jenny's neck prickled. "Why do you say that? A shrug. "It's probably true. If we're stuck here for long your doctor will become reconciled to losing you." "Oh, that," flatly. "Yes, perhaps he will." "So it might be advisable," he said mockingly, "to think about him as little as possible—for your own sake. Be too bad if he got over it and you didn't." "Absolutely," she agreed with zest, and left the matter there.

They had found an easy but slightly risky means of crossing the gully. The trees on their own side of it were palms, but on the other were a few mangroves, those growths of the swamps with grotesque roots that often branch out half-way up the trunk. The particular mangrove they used provided a smooth and slippery bridge with one gigantic root, and they always crossed in the same way, by sitting on it, leaning sideways and hauling themselves along. As Jenny invariably had a helper on each side, she had never yet come to grief. The new boat was drawn up on the beach between two deep runnels created by the floods. It was about fifteen feet long, hollowed from a fresh-cut tree and pointed at each end. It looked narrow and unsafe, though Philip assured Jenny that the long slender pole set squarely across the centre and protruding an equal distance each side turned it into a kind of outrigger and minimized the risk of capsizing. In any case, they would probably keep within the reef. She watched Philip and the two boys run the boat down to the surf and leap into it. The boys paddled and Philip handled the steering oar. When they were afloat he waved at Jenny, and she waved back, rather longingly; it would have been grand to go out there with him. She saw the set half-smile on his face, as if he were prepared to enjoy himself, knew that he was now in a world where women hardly existed, and almost loathed him. Some way out he discarded his shirt, and she could see his wide shoulders burned brown as coconut-shell through working over the boat. She turned resolutely towards the other beach and Kaikai went with her. Kaikai had laboriously picked up a few words of English and he now made it plain that the tuan wished her to return to the house and stay there. Philip, naturally, had not stressed this to Jenny because she would have argued in favour of staying on the other beach to await the return of the boat".

With the native she crossed the gully, and when they came out on to the sand he respectfully dropped behind. At the doer of the house she turned to him. "Kaikai, you have cassava meal to spare—or manioc?" When he understood he nodded eagerly and went off to his own hut. He came back with a flat basket lined with leaves and holding a goodly heap of pale yellow flour which to Jenny looked like neither cassava nor manioc. She would have liked to ask him how his wife made cassava bread, but decided that the one taste she had had of it had hardly been a good advertisement. This meal, though, had the appearance of ground maize; she might save some for a pudding and serve it with jam. No amount of thought and conjecture provided ideas about making bread. She had the meal and water—nothing else. So meal and water' it was, mixed to a dough, shaped into small flat loaves and set in the moderately warm oven to bake. The stove tormented Jenny. While it was fed with driftwood and dried seaweed it kept up a temperature that would have cooked a multitude of appetizing dishes; the trouble was she had nothing but fish to cook, and though the types of fish varied, it was still fish! For the hundredth time she brooded over the store of tins, and it seemed that Kaikai had guessed her dilemma, for he came over and said, in his gentle way: "Mem wish alonga meat? I bring!" This being far too good to be true, Jenny waited sceptically for whatever might turn up. But the strips of dried white meat he brought looked as if they might have possibilities. She examined them closely, saw that they were attached to a yellowish-brown skin and tried to identify them.

"Meat of the little bear?" she asked. Kaikai shook his head and showed his stained teeth in a delighted smile. He said something unintelligible. "Some kind of fish?" she hazarded. Again a shake of the head and the short, unknown word. "Turtle meat? Monkey?" Kaikai thought for a moment. Then he squatted and with a skinny brown forefinger drew an octopus. Jenny hastily dropped the piece she had been holding and managed a weak smile. "The tuan will like it very much," she said without conviction, and placed the bowl on the box which stood at the back of the stove. Kaikai retired to his post at some distance, and she sat in the shade of the house, waiting for the bread to cook. As bread, the brown loaves she took from the oven were not a success. They were hard and flat, the surface rough with the bigger grains of meal; but so long as one had good teeth they were eatable, and the smell was really wholesome. Cold, though, they would have the resiliency of cement. Jenny sighed. She had to give the bulk of the baking to Kaikai for his family. These days she was living by the sun. Her, watch had disappeared into the sand one day while she was bathing, and Philip, of course, wore his. But at Tamarisk Bay it was fairly easy to tell the time within half an hour or so. Around noon, when the sun burned its full trajectory, the Malays trooped into their two huts, the chickens nestled into shady corners and the lagoon became utterly still. Some little time after lunch the first breeze would stir, and as the sun moved over shadows began to form, the slended shadows of palms. And into the shadows came the Malay women. They went down to

the water's edge, bathed and gossiped, combed their glistening black hair and used small pots of paint to enhance the almond- shaped beauty of their eyes, the full tan-pink of their mouths. Once only, Jenny had tried to speak to them. They had listened very politely, nodded as if they completely understood and walked back to their huts. Whether they thought she had asked them to do this she never knew. As usual, darkness fell around six. Jenny went into the hut and lit the candles, and Kaikai brought her some yams which could be baked with the fish. She prepared the meal, decided to be rash once more and opened one of the three tins of evaporated milk. She split bananas, whipped half the milk into a cream and covered the two dishes. Somehow, she could not bring herself to set the table before Philip arrived; it savoured of testing Providence. What was he thinking of, staying away so long? Was he reconnoitring up the coast and had perhaps gone too far? Was the canoe capable of breasting the turbulent river mouths without mishap? Surely there was no need to stay out so long on a trial run? Supposing this bay were sheltered from a wind which raged along other parts of the coast. They might have found a haven somewhere. But, no. Philip wouldn't stay away if it were humanly possible to get back. If they had been swept out to sea. . . . She wouldn't think of it, neither would she analyse the torment of her own feelings. She ranged round the hut, both indoors and out. The good smell of baked fish and yams became nauseating, and at last she took the tins from the oven and let the fire die. It must be half-past seven at least, and he had left around two-thirty. Five hours for a jaunt along the coast. No, she wouldn't think of the night sea, of coral mountains made murderous by darkness and high tide.

Kaikai was still near, and she guessed it was a duty be had been given before Philip left. Why had the Malay been told to stay within yards of the house? Had Kaikai other instructions that she knew nothing about? She called to him sharply. "When will the tuan come?" He only half understood. "Tuan come," he said. Her voice shook. "Now?" "Come some time," was the answer. Jenny's heart went cold. She would have given anything for a cigarette. As for facing a meal. ... I should have gone with him, she thought; he wouldn't have taken chances with a woman aboard. But he hadn't wanted a woman aboard. She remembered the set look of keen anticipation as he had grasped the oar, the shedding of his shirt as if he had felt a challenging wind and was glorying in the chance to ride it out. She could imagine him expanding to the spray on his back, getting a fiendish delight from the dazzling brilliance of sea and shore, coral and sky. At last he was in action and determined to make the most of it. She turned again to the dogged figure of Kaikai, began to say something, but found her throat too tight for words. It is fatally easy to worry oneself to the edge of nervous exhaustion, and Jenny pulled herself up just short of it, and tried to reason. Philip had had to take refuge up the coast, and she was perfectly safe here in the care of Kaikai. The worst that could happen to her would be the waiting on here alone for the rescuer who must come as soon as high seas and storms would permit. If Philip didn't come back. "Go for your meal," she said to Kaikai. "Go now!"

He shook his head, smiling. "Eat soon," he said comfortably. "Plenty long time. Eat soon." Jenny couldn't bear his complacency. She moved down once more to the edge of the sea. And there, coming straight out of the darkness, was the boat with the three men aboard. Kaikai ran into the water to catch at one side of it, the boys and Philip were out, and dragging the vessel up on to the beach below the house. Relief welled in Jenny like a pain, warm blood began to race in her veins. She saw the figure of Philip towering over those of the Malays, heard him speak to them and indicate a long dark mass in the bottom of the canoe. Then he turned to her. "Sorry to be so late," he said easily. "We got two wild pigs." She couldn't speak, but walked with him to the house. Inside, she kept her head bent, went to the pile of clothing, found him a clean shirt and shorts, and moved as though to go outside. He took her arm, turned her to face him. "Shame on you," he said softly, banteringly. But Jenny had stood enough. The tears that stood in her eyes remained fixed there like huge diamonds, and her teeth were closed hard. If he hadn't been holding her arm so tightly she would have brought up her fist to that arrogant jaw. "Say!" Still softly, and with surprise in his tones. "Been really letting go of yourself, haven't you? I didn't tell you we were going after wild pigs because I was afraid it would scare you, but Kaikai knew."

"And how was he supposed to tell me?" Jenny flung at him. "I got the meal ready and waited. I've been frantic, wondering if the boat had capsized in a squall! You go off, knowing you're going to be away hours and hours. . . ." "That's not true," he broke in a little roughly. "I promised you a change in diet and went out to get it, but the wild pig have been moving away from the floods, and we could only trace them from the lagoon—there are no more beaches along the coast. When eventually we did hear them, I left one boy in the canoe and took the other with me. We caught a couple of pigs in the forest, but the canoe had drifted into a current, and it took us all of two hours to get to it. You were in no danger with Kaikai." She wrenched her arm from his grasp, "none at all," she blazed at him with all the fury of fear allayed and become absurd. "I'm just a born idiot to be protected and ignored. All you thought about was your beastly wild pigs! Even if it had occurred to you that I might be getting desperate with anxiety you wouldn't have done a thing about it." His smile down at her was narrow-eyed and speculative. 'Those eyes of yours are like topaz when you're angry. What were you anxious about—yourself or me?" "What do you think?" "I'm not sure. I think you were probably afraid of finding yourself here alone, without a white man." "That's right," she said, tight-lipped. "I was wondering why in the world it happened to be you on that plane, and not some different kind of man."

"Someone who would have been gentle and brotherly," he jeered, quietly. "Sorry you couldn't have a man made to measure, honeybrown." "Don't call me that!" "Why not?" The taunt was still there. "You've grown a good tan, and at times you can be a honey. I've said I'm sorry you were worried. What more do you expect?" "Not a thing, from you." She turned once more to leave the hut, but found him barring the doorway and looking down at her with an expression that baffled. Her hands clenched at her sides. "Let me pass!" "Don't get high-hat, little one. I don't care for it." Her chin went up. "And I don't care for being left so completely in the dark! I've tried to pull my weight and if I haven't done my full share it's only because you've stopped me." Her voice broke, treacherously. "I only hope you'll know some similar sort of anxiety one of these days! It . . . it's . . ." She couldn't possibly have said anything more because his arm was round her and his other hand was pushing her head against his shoulder and scratching in her hair as if she were a puppy. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I wouldn't have had you feel like this. You should have wept the minute you saw me, not gone off like a firework. I swear I won't go again without being frank with you." Then, to her utter astonishment and paralysis, he lifted her chin and kissed her lips. For an immeasurable moment she stared at him, white-faced. Then she drew away from the curve of that hardthewed arm.

"Why," she said almost inaudibly, "did you do that?" He seemed unmoved. "Because you're small, I suppose, and I'd hurt you." "You . . . didn't have to go to that length." He hardened slightly. "You're a woman, and for a minute you looked appealing. It was bound to happen some time." "I don't see why." "No," he said abruptly, "you wouldn't. I was comforting you—but forget it." He stood aside. "I'll change now. There's no need to heat food for me. I'm hungry enough to eat anything." Jenny's knees were trembling as she walked outside.

Next morning she wondered if the kiss could possibly have happened. Philip whistled a tune which had been popular about a year ago, while he sharpened his parang, the Malay knife he had bought from Kaikai. He sliced the boar meat and cooked it himself, over a camp fire, and when it was ready he called, "Come and get it!" to Jenny, who was dressing after a swim. They ate sitting on the sand, which was less intimate than within the close walls of the hut, and Jenny felt he had arranged it so, purposely. Gay green parrots were noisy in the palms beyond the house and a high breeze stirred the branches. Philip examined their dwelling and made the roof as secure as possible. "We're on the edge of a squall and will probably miss the worst of it, but we have to be prepared for a series of them in this district. We're lucky to have had no rain."

The breeze kept the air cool and fresh, but it must have been very local, for just beyond the reef hung a dense pall of mist. Jenny thought it would be just her luck if a ship were out there, steaming unwittingly close. She cleaned the make-shift frying pan with sand and rinsed it, kicked out the embers of the fire and went into the hut to make her bed. She was sleeping each night on the straw mattress made for her by the Malay women. They themselves were content to wrap in a pandanus mat, and it would have surprised them to learn that the white men considered the mattress hard going; to them it was the height of luxury. But Jenny had discovered that even with two layers of cotton and the rug between herself and the mattress, sharp pieces of dried grass found their way through to her skin and quite often she awoke to feel ants running over her limbs—and there were certainly no ants in the sand. Many other insects—but no ants. She had smoothed the flowered cotton cover over the bed and was wishing once again that there was a cupboard for their clothes, when Philip came in. He went to his overcoat, which hung on a wooden peg that had been hammered into the thatch, and went through the pockets, as if searching for something. He drew out some letters and his wallet. Jenny was on the point of leaving him to it when she saw the jade figurine on the mat. She stooped and picked it up, held it out. "You dropped this." "So I did." He took it and turned it over in his palm. "Pretty, isn't it? I bought it from a craftsman at Kinoi." "It's too tiny for a room ornament," she found herself saying. "Do you regard it as a charm?"

His smile was aloof, even a little cynical. "I don't go for that sort of charm. I haven't really thought how it might be used. Attached to a gold pin it might make an unusual costume brooch for a woman." "Jade set in gold would look well with a black suit." She nodded carelessly, and went outside. She felt raw and touchy, fed up with going barefoot and wearing the same two frocks, rough dry. Even Philip was better off, because half his shirts were nylon and needed no ironing, and the drill of his shorts responded well to being pressed by weighted boards as they dried. For the first time since coming to Tamarisk Bay she felt thoroughly out of tune with the whole business. Philip came out with his hands in his pockets. "I'll see if I can get some of the wild pig cured," he said. "We may as well have the nearest thing we can get to bacon. Would you like a leg, for roasting?" "If you like," she said off-handedly. "Something else gone wrong?" he asked sharply. She shrugged. "Nothing else." "You've just had enough of the romantic situation? Marvellous how even the things you hanker for can pall, isn't it?" "I certainly never hankered to be marooned here," she said without heat. "I'd mind it less if I had more clothes." "Can you knock up some simple frocks? There's more material in the store." "But no cotton thread. All I have is a darning set, and the Malays don't use cotton."

"But they must. What about those blouse things they wear with the sarong? I'll ask Kaikai." "I've already asked him. He offered a hefty sort of thread made from .sisal. It was difficult even to sew on one of your buttons with it. They may have had cotton at one time, but they haven't any now." A pause. "Well, frocks aren't that important, are they? You've no competition. But we'll have to see what we can do about it." He went down to the boat to examine it for scars from yesterday's trip, and Jenny, after an irresolute moment, slipped back into the house. The room was so bare that she at once noticed the couple of letters half hiding a photograph on the table, but she didn't move closer to them at once. Perhaps she was warned by a faint stab of premonition. She hesitated, felt a coldness about her lips, the jerk of a muscle at her throat. All she could see of the photograph was an arc of cloudy hair with light behind it, and part of a signature. The top envelope was typewritten, addressed to him at Kinoi; a business letter, probably. Almost involuntarily she moved it to look at the one underneath, but that was hardly different. Her fingers moved again, and the photograph was revealed. She saw a smiling, vital face, the nose long and smooth, the eyes direct and alive, the hair curly and black, and the mouth full and inviting. She might be twenty-five, no more; and she was not beautiful in the English sense. Rather, she had the petite, continental appeal, that certain something which is the prerogative of the Latin woman. Firmly, at the foot of the picture, she had written, "Toujours a toi, cher Philippe." The signature was "Delice."

Without quite realizing what she was doing, Jenny put the letters back as she had found them, and then she moved towards her bed and slumped heavily on to the side of it. She wasn't surprised—not a bit. It was only that she had never expected to come across such obvious evidence. Quite certainly Philip wouldn't have been going to Paris for the mere pleasure of once more looking the city over. He had admitted to having friends there, and from the beginning she had had no doubt at all that one of those friends—or perhaps all of them—was a woman. Had she permitted herself to dwell upon it, she would also have said .that the woman would be beautiful and sophisticated— just like the photograph, in fact. In the past few days she had tried to forget that other side of Philip. He had been nonchalant and kind, thoughtful of her comfort and privacy, bantering, extremely likeable. Arrogance was in his nature, of course, but she found it tolerable because a tremendous mental and physical strength went with it. His aloofness had occasionally been hard to endure, but on the whole she had been grateful for it, because it had shown that with Jenny he had no intention of being the ladies' man. Much as he exasperated her at times, she felt safe with him—or had, till last night. Her lips quivered now with the memory of that firm mouth upon her own. In the moment of that kiss something had changed within her, but she couldn't have explained the change. Jenny looked again at the partly hidden photograph on the table. He had left it there as though forgotten, when he was replacing his papers and wallet in his pocket, but perhaps the omission had not been so careless after all. He knew she had been upset last night, that she might have read more into a casual comforting kiss than he had intended; he also knew the potency of proximity and tropic nights. Who better?

So he had conceived this simple means of letting her know that any hopes she might entertain were both foolish and without foundation. He was reminding her that the collision of their lives would, in the long run, seem to have been brief and without meaning. Jenny felt hollow and shaky, but her pride flared. She had fallen a little way, but was still capable of picking herself up! Mr. Philip Brooke needn't have troubled about displaying his beastly photograph. She went out quickly and down to the boat. For a few minutes she watched him at work on the steering paddle, the bent head, the lean dark hands moving with assurance. When she was quite sure her voice was under control, she said, "You promised to let me go out with you and the boys today." "I don't see why you shouldn't." The glance he lifted was lazy, noncommittal. "We'll dive for oysters; might find a pearl or two." The relationship was re-established. For Jenny, its basis was a little more rocky and a vague sense of strain ever present, but at least she knew exactly where she stood. When she went back to the house some time later, letters and photograph were gone.

CHAPTER FOUR THE CANOE widened Jenny's horizon. In the sparkling lagoon waters they scoured the coastline, finding turtles and huge oysters. Why, thought Jenny with renewed exuberance, should they not come upon that giant pearl which is the dream of every pearl-diver? In fact, they found no pearls at all in the edible oysters, but there was always the chance, on prising open one of the big flat shells, that a lustrous sphere would lie within. They had no goggles, so the boys and Philip dived without them, letting out every breath to decrease their buoyancy and staying below so long that on one occasion Jenny had leapt over the side to investigate. They ate some of the oysters and threw the rest back into the sea, and when eventually they returned to the beach Jenny was invariably spent, and not unhappy. She liked the dense green of the coastline, the basking turtles, the small Malayan bears ambling among the growth, and the wah-wah, a little tailless monkey that moved with incredible speed in the branches; she even liked to watch the rapids caused by the floods at the river mouths. The wonder was that there were so many miles of the jungle coast; not a single beach or village within reach of the canoe. As Philip had promised, their diet became more varied. There were omelets made from turtle eggs, turtle meat— which was good once one had forced oneself to taste it— seabirds killed by catapult, breadfruit from a particularly fine clump of trees that overhung the mouth of the Lumani, and various fruits which did not exist in the forest around Tamarisk Bay. Jenny's clothing problem was partially solved by the discovery of boys' shorts and shirts in one of the submerged drawers at the store. But the shorts were a mixed blessing, for heat and sandflies caused

big red blisters on her legs, and the usually covered portion just above the knee came in for the fiercest onslaughts. Philip insisted that the blisters be dabbed with antiseptic several times a day, and gradually the irritation was checked. The Malays had become contented and established. For their own use they built another canoe, and they caught so much fish that huge quantities had to be salted and dried. On the whole, they were happy doing little and not in the least anxious for money. All they really lacked was rice, and that, presumably, would not take long to grow once the rains were over. They had attached themselves to a white tuan and knew that he would guide them and make them work when necessary. Philip lectured them. Jenny didn't know what he said but she did gather that it had to do with the commercial, growing of coconuts. He told her afterwards that he had tried to fire them with some sort of ambition, and Kaikai had promised that his family would talk it over. Oddly, it was the squall that started up industry at Tamarisk Bay. Another haze had come up over the sea and this time it spread over the lagoon and enveloped the beach. About mid-morning an ordinary breeze blew up, but at noon there was a stillness for half an hour. Then the squall came up with a shriek, tearing at the palms, lifting spirals of sand high into the air, hurling everything before it. Philip came chasing up the beach. "Get inside, Jenny! I'll look after things." Within the house she could hear only the wind, a raucous roaring that sent a rattle of' twigs and stones over the walls and the stove outside. Philip came in breathing heavily and shoving back the thick reddish- brown hair. He secured the matting at the door and windows, looked up in the dimness at the thatch.

"We're about to find out how good a job we've done," he said. ''The height of the squall won't last long, but there'll be a goodish wind all day. It generally dies completely in the small hours." On her way into the house Jenny had snatched up the clothes she had laid out on the beach to dry, and now she was folding them on the table. "Will it rain?" she asked. "Not much. Squalls drop a small cloud here and there, but it doesn't have to be stormy. This one's a bit late in the season. Once the rains have started we don't get "big winds." He pulled round the chair, unconsciously put a hand to the deep pocket of this shirt. "That's funny. After all these days without them, I was feeling for my cigarettes." "Do you miss smoking?" "It's something to do, when you've too much spare time. Sit down, brownie. I'll have the stool." "Why don't you try smoking Kaikai's mixture?" He smiled. "I don't trust it. They do grow some good tobacco, but they put some other herb with it for smoking. It's one of the things that make them see life through a rose-colored haze." "That might be nice, for a change." "Not for me. I prefer my wits about me." He looked roofwards. "Creaking somewhat, but that's a good sign, like the spring in a wooden floor." A pause. Then with apparent irrelevance, "Did you do much dancing at Boekarta?"

"Only in people's houses, and there weren't many of us. Lewis . . ." She stopped. "Yes" politely. "What about Lewis?" "He dances well," she said casually. "And it was a chance to get you in his arms," he said with kind comprehension. "Romance must be a bit difficult for a doctor. He has to know he wants to marry a woman before he can take chances." "I think it's safer that way, whatever your profession, don't you? Not for men like you, of course. You could probably get away with anything." He was leaning back on the stool, smiling at her with his eyes narrowed. "You'd love to say something that would stab me right through, wouldn't you?" he said softly. "You can even think of what you'd say, but you just haven't the courage. I don't blame you, but I'd like to know why." Purposely, she misunderstood him. "Why haven't I the courage?" "No. I know that. You're scared stiff of reprisals. Did someone once give a twist to your heart?" Not before you had a go at it, she thought, tremulously. "No," she answered without a quiver. "I'm merely as frank with you as you are with me." "We are fairly candid, aren't we, yet on the whole we know practically nothing about each other. What sort of little girl were you?"

Jenny listened to the wind and reflected, rather wryly, that this was how she had to fill in the time for him till he could go out again. "Very ordinary," she said. "My father was killed early in the war and my mother died five years ago. I went to boarding school and began to train as a teacher. Before I'd finished training the Bodens hired me to come out here." "No brothers and sisters?" "One married brother. After I left school I lived with him and his wife." "Didn't they want you?" "Why shouldn't they want me?" she demanded. "How can I tell?" he said reasonably. "All I know is that in your brother's place I wouldn't have let you come out here. You weren't of age and he must have known that the inland climate of Sumatra is a trifle hot and damp," Then, shrewdly, "What's his wife like?" It was difficult to wrench her mind back to the neat and slightly pretentious villa she had shared with Michael and Cicely. Here, the rest of the world seemed very far away and unimportant, and the years of training had acquired the unreality of a dream. "She's very good and dutiful." He laughed. "What an indictment! She sounds as interesting as last week's bread—if we'd had any bread. Are they in love—your brother and his wife?" "Well,, of course, but Michael isn't demonstrative, and Cicely wouldn't like it if he were."

"There must be thousands of couples like that, poor beggars. Don't you feel sorry for them?" "Not if they're getting what they want. Michael runs his father-inlaw's business, and Cicely likes a public life. They're happy!" she said defiantly. "All right, they're happy." His regard was quizzical. "I'll bet you you weren't too happy with them, though." "I'm not so different," she stated hardily. "Michael may seem something of a stick-in-the-mud, but I'm no less keen on security. Three parts of the human race are like that." "Which explains Lewis Garve," he said negligently. "Tell me something. Does the admirable Lewis realize that you sparkle over doing something you've never done before? Would he approve of you wearing boy's shorts and eating turtle meat, of your diving for pearls and chewing unlimited quantities of coconut?" "Do you approve?" she countered. His shoulders lifted. "What's life, if there's no adventure in it? That's what I'm getting at. He's built for stolidity, but you aren't. Your natural high spirits may take a queer turn now and then, but they definitely exist. If you marry Lewis Garve they'll be flattened right out." Jenny was on the point of saying, "But I shan't marry him," when she changed her mind. Lewis was a sort of abstract bulwark, a support that she could not afford to dispense with while she remained here at Tamarisk Bay with Philip Brooke. It was far safer to keep Lewis there between them, safer and good for her pride. So she said lightly. "You're hard on Lewis, but I can assure you that he has his moments! After all, you're probably something of a model

Englishman at Kinoi yet at the first break for freedom you're on the way to Paris!" "My first long break from Kinoi was three years ago, and I went to Paris on my way back," he commented. "You liked it well enough to go there first time." "Quite true." She probed, despising herself. "Don't you wish you could get word through to your friends?" "Naturally, but they'll understand. I've still plenty of leave ahead. That aspect is no worse for me than it is for you." And without pause: "Were you going to specialize as a teacher?" "History was my subject, but I hadn't got far with specializing." She looked at him across the table, saw something enigmatic in his expression and brought her glance back to her own hands. "Have you always been in the colonial service?" "In a way, though part of the time was spent in the air over Burma, My first job as a government official was in Burma, too, and then I was given a push upwards. There's a governor of our group of islands, but I'm in charge of administration of Kinoi." "Like a district officer, only you have an island?" "That's right." His eyes mocked her. "Trying to pigeonhole me, aren't you? Women love to divide men into types." "Maybe, but I wouldn't attempt it with you. Have you a family in England?" she asked curiously.

His shoulders lifted. "A few relatives, no one close." "You don't like bonds, do you? I suppose that's why you've never married." He stood up and went to the window, where the reed blind was billowing madly. He pressed on the pegs that held it. "A man doesn't marry till he comes across a woman whom he finds indispensable. It's a pity to marry even then, I think. There's spice in being in love; none at all in marriage." She felt bound to retort: "How do you know, if you've never tried it?" On a note of satire he replied, "I've seen a good deal, little one, both out here and elsewhere. I have an assistant who's married, and our doctor has a wife, too. Two of Kinoi's planters are married, and colonial officers who come to visit us invariably bring their wives. I wouldn't change places with any of them." "You mean you're never lonely ... in that way?" He turned, but in the dimness his face was unreadable. He sounded amused, impersonal. "I haven't been—yet. If I ever do take a wife back to Kinoi she won't be the usual mem. She'll be an exciting creature, with a dash of mystery." "Like a . . . Frenchwoman?" Philip said suavely, "Profitless discussion, isn't it? Got any ideas for lunch?" Before she could make an exasperated reply there came a series of small thuds on the thatch. "Coconuts," he said laconically. "Good thing we're under cover."

Jenny hated that afternoon. By two o'clock the worst of the squall was over, but a high wind persisted and made the outdoors thoroughly unpleasant. Sand rushed by in a continuous cloud, the sea was whipped into twenty-foot waves and even the lagoon was gale-driven, and washed high up the beach. Inside the house a couple of candles burned fitfully in the crosscurrents between reed-covered door and windows. Jenny had nothing whatever to do, and in desperation she lay on her bedcover with her hands under her head and gazed at the banana thatching till her eyes ached. Across the room Philip sat whittling chess men from a stick, and he accompanied his carving with a light-hearted whistling that brushed her nerves like red- hot wires. His unconcerned acceptance of the elements was like a taunt; the fact that at intervals he cast her a calculating glance was nearly unbearable. It was getting dark outside when he said, "If you're worrying because I can't sleep under the stars tonight, you needn't. I'll rig up the floor matting as a partition, and if you prefer it you can have the door in your half." Because he expected it she murmured a few words of relief. Her nerves and sinews remained taut, however; her mind pulsed as restlessly as if she had recently made a shattering discovery. Yet she still didn't believe she was in love. The morning broke clear and brilliant. As though yesterday had never happened, the lagoon shone like rippled glass in the sunshine, and flocks of gay-plumaged birds chattered among the trees which backed the white beach. The tamarisks still waved their lavender feathers with the gentle movements of a delicate scented lady, but behind them the Flame of the Forest was sultry, part of the jungle.

It was a morning of promise, for more than one reason. That day the usual industry of the South Seas began at Tamarisk Bay, and it was started by the thousands of coconuts which had been wrenched from the tall palms and cast over the beach to form a covering of primitive cannon balls. In the dawn Philip had stood in the doorway of the house, looked about him and laughed. As soon as the Malays were stirring he was at them, ordering the heaping of the nuts, both on this beach and the next, and telling the wives that they must start husking and making grass sacks to take the coir. Since they were intending to live permanently at the beach they must be prepared for others to join them as soon as the waters subsided, and it would be wise to make sure of barter goods before these others came. If they worked, Tamarisk Bay could become a small copra station. There were plenty of wild coconuts along the lagoon, and there was no reason why a couple of them should not gather the nuts by canoe while others remained behind to deal with the husking, opening and drying. Kaikai seemed to have been waiting for such a command. From the day he had first appeared at the beach he had looked increasingly to Philip for some kind of plan to which his family might conform for their advantage, and this one, though necessarily simple, was for him the beginning of stability. Like most Indonesian natives he had made copra before, and used it to gain salt and rice and clothing for his family, but chiefly he had used coconut as food, and as a means of making the heady palm wine without which no ceremony could be complete. Now, though, he was willing to believe everything Philip promised. A copra station, with Philip at the head and himself a benign sort of superintendent; it never occurred to him that the white tuan was not there for ever. The activity on the beach became infectious. Jenny would have helped with the heaping of coconuts had Philip not forbidden it;

instead, she went down to the rim of driftwood and seaweed left by the swollen tide, and gathered many kinds of shells she had never seen before. She had finished a bag for her shells from a piece of colored cotton and darning silk, but now she found it too small and began to make another. She counted fifty different kinds of shell; some were tiny and pastel-shaded, others large and flat or twisted into a horn shape, and so vivid of hue that they might have been painted. There were mother-of-pearl oysters and several small oysters that defied her efforts to open them. She thought she might like to make one of those crinoline ladies, all shells, even to the clam on which she stood, as a memento of Tamarisk Bay. But the vision of herself staring at such an object some time in the future made her feel just a little sick; she didn't know why. She dropped her two bags of shells in the corner of the room, looked at the scarlet seaweed hanging on the wall, fingered the half-dozen chess pieces Philip had completed with astonishing expertness, and wondered what more they would collect before a boat appeared to carry them away. After a day or two, Jenny could almost persuade herself that she was living on a coconut plantation. The higher parts of the next beach had been consolidated as a drying ground for the halved nuts, a thatch on poles covered a tidy heap of coir, and over the fence that surrounded the two native huts were draped many grass bags. The smell of coconut oil hung on the air, but in the background lay the heavy reek of fruit rotting in the jungle; the wind had also taken toll of mangoes and bananas. There was talk of felling a giant mahogany and turning it into a copra boat. The tree was selected but had to be left standing till the water had disappeared from around the bole. In any case, at the rate the Malays worked they already had plenty to do. They implicitly

believed Philip's statement that he would arrange for freighters to call at Tamarisk Bay, but they also knew no shipping would approach the reef while rivers were turbulent and so much land under water. There could be no hurry. Yet Philip kept them at it, and Jenny realized that the squall had done something for him that it had omitted to do for herself. He had probably thought before of turning the Malays into copra producers, but with only a few grown men the task of forcing them to climb for the nuts had hardly been worth trying. With richness lying around on the ground, though, there had been no doubt, about their response. Now, he was heart and soul in the venture; he had even chosen a site for the copra shed and pointed out where other native huts must be built. Jenny envied him. They had little time for conversation. He sent someone to watch while she bathed, saw that the stove was plentifully supplied with wood, had fish or meat delivered to her ready for cooking, and even sent her over a few ivory nuts that she might like to keep. When he turned up for a meal, bronzed from his work in the sun and able to relax, he invariably put the same question. "Everything all right, brownie?" To which she as often replied, "Of course." Not long after they had come to the bay she had thought they might some time arrive at discussing books and music, life in the Far East, and those pleasant people the Dutch, who had done so much to develop Indonesia. She had thought they might laugh and disagree, that he would scoff at her feminine tastes but perhaps find enjoyment in her society. Since then, though, he had kissed her because . . . well, it had probably been because he was bored; and he had been very careful to place in her way the photograph of a

woman who had many more good books and brains than Jenny Manson. She could find no solace in Keats. She was thoroughly out of tune with poetry, could hit upon nothing in the book that didn't seem pallid compared with the glitter and color of the coastline and the coral gardens beneath the lagoon. The nights now were made magic by a sharp crescent moon that rose with the velvet dusk and slid behind the trees later and later each night. Jenny was watching the moon that evening when she heard a minor commotion down near the edge of the water. Philip was changing inside the hut, and she called to him. "Philip, has someone taken out the canoe?" "No, its well up among the trees," was his answer. Her voice rose, and shook. "Then ... we have a visitor. There's a boat being pulled up, and ... I think it's two men." Before she had finished speaking he was out there with her, wiping traces of lather from his jaw. "Stay here," ha said sharply, and strode down to where the two figures were bent over some sort of craft. Jenny's heart began a mad thumping. Was it over, their time alone? Had a ship come close enough to the reef to see the fires, and decided to send a canoe to investigate? Was this the result of the pilot's report about them, at Singapore? Or could these be Malays, washed down the river and seeking food? Questions pelted through her mind with the rapidity of her heartbeat, and though the cool of the evening had long since settled over the bay, a hot sweat formed at her temples. She had grown so

accustomed to day after day without the sight of even a kueh sail, that the very thought of other men, perhaps white men, made her feel faint and horribly reluctant to learn more. Mechanically, she turned to the stove and moved the tall pot of coffee nearer to the heat. By the time she swung about again Philip was there, and a white man moved slowly at his side. Philip must have seen her distress, for he said at once, very smoothly, "A missionary, Jenny. Mr. Meyer, and his boat-boy. Mr. Meyer has had a bad time along the coast and is very tired. I'll take him inside." Jenny saw the pale, flaccid face of the older man, managed to return a bright smile for his weary one. "We're very glad to see you, Mr. Meyer. I'll bring you some coffee and arrange for your boy to be given food." "That is very good of you." He drew a sigh. "You are the first white people I have seen for two months." And he went with Philip into the house. Jenny didn't reason why she should feel suddenly happy. The missionary had not come to help; by the look of things he was in need of assistance himself. He spoke with the suspicion of an accent, and carefully, as if it were a long time since he had used English. Since he appeared to constitute no threat she was glad to see him. She called Kaikai and asked him to take care of the boat-boy, and then took the coffee-pot into the house. The missionary was sitting on the side of her bed, and in the flickering light of the candles she was aware of his air of exhaustion, the grime of his drill slacks and jacket. He was speaking slowly to Philip, who leaned against the

wall, his expression carefully unrevealing. As Jenny poured the coffee, the man looked her way, with a gentle smile. "It did not occur to me that I might find people here. I knew the trader had departed many weeks ago, and I did not think there would be even villagers at this spot. But I knew I must spend this 'night here, before completing my journey." Jenny gave him coffee. "Have you come far, Mr. Meyer?" "About seventy miles. My station is in jungle, but since the rains we have had both sea and floods at our very doors. Only since the squall . . . you had the squall here?" They assured him they had, and he went on, "When the wind had dropped I knew I must -come at once, or perhaps be held up much longer." "But where are you going?" "To Puleng," he answered simply. Philip said, "Puleng doesn't exist any more. We were there only two weeks ago." Only two weeks, thought Jenny faintly, as she put in, "There are no houses, no people; only an expanse of water." "The people will be among the trees, even living in the branches," Mr. Meyer said. "I am taking them some rice and salt, and I shall endeavour to give them courage." "They're widely scattered," Philip said abruptly. "We came through the forest to this beach and didn't see a single native. The Malays we have here could tell me nothing of the people of Puleng."

"They will be there," said the missionary with quiet obstinacy. "It is a long time since I was able to visit them, but I know them to be a closely-knit village under a good chief. I shall find them." "If you get that far." In his exasperation Philip sounded harsh. "The river currents will make splinters of a boat like yours." "It is a light vessel, but good for that reason. Already my boy Carried it through torrents and rapids. We have come this far, and by river Puleng cannot be more than ten miles. We shall get there." He drank his coffee, and was pathetically grateful for a meal of fish and fruit, which he ate in the same position, sitting on the side of the camp bed. Afterwards, he took from his coat pocket a flat packet of cheroots. Philip accepted one, but said: "Do you happen to have a cigarette for Jenny? You may not approve of women smoking, but she does enjoy a weed now and then. She's a good child, without vices." Mr. Meyer smiled. "I was thinking that she is probably a modern "young woman, a little new to this country. Yes, I have a box of cigarettes which I have not even opened. You may have them, my dear, with my gratitude." Philip's brows rose. "Don't smoke them when I'm around," he said. "I shan't be able to bear it." "We'll share them," she assured him automatically. "Of course," nodded Mr. Meyer. "Sharing is the basis of the good life." Now that he had eaten and relaxed a faint color had come into his cheeks. He looked, Jenny thought, as if he had once been a large robust man. The bonework of his face was square, but the skin of

face and throat was folded and generally of the brownish-grey appearance that is the result of persistent ill-health in the tropics. At some time or other he had possibly been ravaged by jungle fever, and because he had not sought a cooler climate he had never quite recovered from it. But he was by no means an unhappy man. Rested and fed, he began to talk. About his mission up at the coast, where he doctored and preached with the assistance of Malay nurses and lay preachers; about his victories and failures, and those long arduous tours he took every three or four months into the hinterland. This was the first time he had set out for Puleng by sea. "Why not stay here while your boat-boy goes ahead with one of our boys?" suggested Jenny impulsively. "After a few days here you'll be strong enough to follow." Philip exhaled a thin cloud of aromatic cheroot smoke. "I'm afraid it won't be any better in a few days. The river will remain in spate for months. I think that after resting you should go back to your mission, Mr. Meyer." The older man shook he head. "I am not so old as I look. You do not turn back, do you, Mr. Brooke? You have never turned back from anything!" "Maybe not, but I weigh a thing up pretty thoroughly before I embark on it. You won't find the villagers of Puleng. By now, the floods will be so widespread that the folk will be scattered for miles. In any case, what good will a little rice and salt do them?" "Not only rice and salt," said the man gently. "They need comfort and wisdom." "There's nothing one man can do," Philip replied impatiently. "These people deal with floods every year; it simply happens to be worse for them this year. When the waters sink the rice will grow

fast and the flimsy houses will go up. Till then they have to get along like the rest of us—on whatever they find in the forest." His voice hard, he asked, "You're greatly needed at your mission, aren't you?" "I am the head of it—the only white man." "Then that's where you belong. It may be very brave to chase up the Lumani to Puleng, but it's a risk you have no right to take!" Mr. Meyer smiled. "You are a forceful man, Mr. Brooke, but 1 am a stubborn one. I shall go to Puleng tomorrow." He looked at them both, his eyes kindly and interested. "May I ask how you come to be here?" Jenny had expected the question, but her pulse began to thump unevenly nevertheless. She glanced swiftly at Philip, saw him throw one nonchalant leg over the other knee before he answered casually: "We were hoping to get to Singapore by plane, but at Puleng the plane was crowded and we had to be left behind. So we trekked through to the coast." The missionary nodded, understanding that such things were mere incidents in the major catastrophe of the floods. "You have done well. As I came up the beach I smelled the copra, and it occurred to me you might be starting a plantation and using the wild palms at first. This house," he waved a hand, "could be your temporary home till you are able to build something more solid." Philip's smile was somewhat set. "I'm not a planter, Mr. Meyer. There's a. large local family at the back of the beach, and I thought they should be encouraged to attempt a higher standard of living. We're hoping that when the seas beyond the reef are calmer a boat will pick us up."

"I see. You have no intention of settling here with these people?" "I don't like inaction, so I'm getting them started, that's all. My job is in the government service at Kinoi, but at the moment I'm on leave." Mr. Meyer nodded. "So? It is a good thing that you do here, Mr. Brooke. These Sumatrans will still do much for a white man— which is why I am able to run my mission without other white help." They talked for a while longer, but when the effects of coffee laced with brandy from his own flask had worn off, Mr. Meyer again looked spent. He stood up stiffly. "Perhaps there is a vacant Malay hut that I could use?" Philip went to the doorway, looked out at the night. "I'm afraid there isn't. It's going to be a warm night, though." A little appalled at this apparent callousness, Jenny said hastily, "You must get a good rest tonight, Mr. Meyer. Take my bed; it's fairly comfortable." "But you, my dear young lady!" Philip turned back into the room. He looked at the tired eyes of the older man, 'at the entreaty in Jenny's. For a moment Jenny thought he would remain adamant. Then he said, "Yes, use the bed, Mr. Meyer, but you won't mind if I insist that Jenny has the rug?" "Of course not. You must certainly protect her from a sudden chill in the atmosphere. And please take your coat. I will lie down as I am." His smile, though still exhausted, gained warmth. "You do not know how much good it has done me to come upon you here. If I say I admire you, Mr. Brooke, you will answer with something that

is shatteringly sarcastic; I know it. Perhaps I may instead be permitted to congratulate you on your wife. I feel she, has a character both tender and charming, and I am sure that you will appreciate her more and more as you go through life together." To Jenny, the room was toppling. Philip didn't quiver an eyelid. "Thanks," he said. "Coming Jenny?" Jenny didn't answer Mr. Meyer's "Good night." She couldn't speak. Somehow, she got outside and stood there while Philip adjusted the matting over the inside of the doorway. Then she moved mechanically to the shadowed side of the hut. Philip's hand on her shoulder burnt, and she shook it off. "Steady," he said softly. "It could have been much worse." "For instance?" she flashed at him. "Well," almost on a drawl, "he could have thought we weren't married." "Do you suppose a man like that would . . . would have horrible thoughts? Why didn't you tell him the truth?" "It was wiser to let him draw his own conclusions. After tomorrow we shan't see him again. Why should he go off with ill thoughts that have no foundation?" "But it puts me in a false position!" "And me," he reminded her, "but I'm dashed if I care. I did it for you, my child. A man placed as we are is forgiven almost anything, but a woman isn't. It's the way of the world." "I don't want that kind of protection!"

"You've got it," he said tersely. "And now roll yourself in the rug close to the wall and be quiet. Save your arguments till he's gone." Jenny obeyed him because there was nothing else to do, but she lay inside the rug with her fists clenched, and there was a lump in her throat that had the choking sharpness of rock salt.

CHAPTER FIVE MR. MEYER was delighted with slices of wild pig and a portion of turtle-egg omelet for his breakfast. This morning he was refreshed and beaming, and he ate beside the camp fire on the sand and stared around him with great interest. Best of all, he said, he liked to see the natives busy. To Jenny's relief, Philip had gone off to the next beach as soon as he had eaten, and she was alone with the missionary. Even so, every time the man referred to "your husband" she winced; it was like having a tooth drilled. As far as she could, she kept him on the subject of himself and his work. It seemed he was one of those unfortunate people from Europe who had found themselves dispersed all over the world and only half trained. Mr. Meyer had set out to be a general practitioner but had arrived in the Far East without a degree, though with much zeal to help those less fortunate than himself. He had never joined any religious society, but his approach was orthodox and he was able to practise medicine under the cloak of missionary work. "Later," he told Jenny, "when countries were more settled, I would have gone back to take my degree, but such a plan would have needed much time and the mission I had already established would have suffered. I considered it my duty to stay, but to send away promising students for education in medicine and social welfare." "Yours is marvellous work," she said sincerely. "Haven't you ever thought of engaging a white assistant?" "No. Perhaps I am a little jealous for that which I have created. When I feel myself growing old, I shall ask some organization to take over the administration. There are missions of all nationalities at work in the South Seas."

"Isn't Puleng rather far from your base?" A shrug. "Distance is not material. To me, Puleng is both a duty and a pleasure." "Will you come and see us on your way back?" "I am afraid not," regretfully. "When I leave Puleng I must hurry home. But I shall wave to you from the lagoon as I sail by! You may be sure I shall never forget you." Which was not as reassuring as Jenny would have liked; she would have preferred not to be remembered by Mr. Meyer! She made up a parcel of food for him, filled his bottles with boiled water and his thermos with coffee, and went with him down to his boat to stow them. It was not the usual Malay canoe hollowed from a log, but one which had been built many years ago at a shipyard. Paint had peeled away and the timbers badly needed caulking, the sail was threadbare and the mast eroded, but it was fairly safe for sailing on the lagoon or on a river. His journey from along the coast beyond the reef remained a miracle, though. In various ways he must have suffered a great deal. In spite of herself, Jenny said, "A missionary in your position really needs a wife. It would make life so much easier for you." "I have been married," he answered with simple dignity. "My wife was Sumatran and she helped me a great deal, but she died several years ago. No one could take her place." "I'm sorry." "I'm glad you spoke of it. You are young, but sympathetic. Here comes Mr. Brooke." He smiled, "He is arrogant, this husband of yours, and accustomed to having his own way, but I would trust him to the ends of the earth."

"I'd trust him as far as Paris, myself," said Jenny with what, she hoped, was the correct degree of humour. "It's a pity you have to go now." Hands were shaken, good wishes exchanged, and Kaikai helped Philip to push out the loaded canoe. Mr. Meyer waved from his seat, kept on waving till the boat was hidden by the belt of palms. Jenny went back to the house and knew she felt different today from yesterday, before the missionary's arrival. She had never thought she would ever begin to dislike this little house, but this morning she could hardly bear to glance about her. The bed had been tidied by Mr. Meyer, but she shook up the mattress, spread the rug and the cotton cover and pushed the bed well against the wall. She dusted the inevitable thin layer of sand from the table, and, because it came to her mind and she had nothing else to do, she shaped a chessboard on the warped surface with the point of a knife. Measuring the squares was an absorbing task, and when she had finished the sun was right overhead and the boys were trooping to the huts for the long midday rest. The heat, Jenny found when she went outside for tins of soup and beans, was tremendous. There was no breeze, nothing but the white glare and the almost tangible pounding of the sun. The lagoon was glassy, and even the sea seemed to have lost some of its restlessness. Philip came in drenched with sweat, took trunks and clean things and went down for a dip. They ate food which was far too heavy at the table in the house, and drank coffee till they oozed.' Normally, on such a day, Jenny would have said, "Do you ever think of lettuce and tomatoes straight from the fridge? And wouldn't it be heaven if it rained ice cubes!" Today, though, she was silent, and Philip made no effort at conversation, either. But his mood was not quite so finely balanced

as Jenny's. He smoked with a fair show of tranquillity while she got through her cigarette in furious spurts, and when there was a rustling outside he got up as indolently as ever to speak to Kaikai. The exchange in Malay was disjointed and Jenny didn't understand a word of it. When Philip backed into the room, bringing after him an elegant mattress covered in white bleach from the store and thonged with fibre at the edges, she got up. "What is it?" she asked. "A gift from the Malays, to take the place of your grass-filled one. It's packed with coir. You'd better have it on top of the other." "The grass one isn't too bad. Why did they make this?" "Because they like you," he said laconically. "They've made one for me, as well." She moved aside and let him put the mattress on the bed, turned to look through the window-hole at the huts, dozing in the white heat. The familiar nervous coldness was at her lips. "I don't think I can stand much more of this," she said. "Don't be an idiot," he replied evenly. "Nothing's happened that wasn't inevitable. I thought you came through very well with the missionary." "He may find out the truth." "I doubt it; he has very little communication with white people. But even if he does, he isn't likely to hold it against us; he'll be grateful to us for not shocking him."

She twisted to look at him, her face white. "You just don't care, do you? I believe inwardly you're thoroughly amused." "No," he returned a trifle crisply. "It's not funny, but neither is it worth rowing over. What are you worried about—the reaction of Lewis Garve?" "Not only Lewis—he'd understand. But there are others. I'm hoping to go on living at Boekarta, and if it ever gets through to the plantation that . . ." "It is Garve you're fretting about," he said. "You can imagine it spoiling your life with him, can't you? Well, I don't know the man and at the moment I can't bother with him. By letting Meyer believe us married I did what almost any other man would have done in similar circumstances. It's over; we'll never see him again." "What about the Malays?" she demanded bitterly. "It looks as if they may have a few ideas, too!" His eyes glinted, a dark sea-green. "I've never discussed you with the Malays and I never will. I don't doubt that to them you're my particular woman, but that only makes it safer for you. They've attached themselves to me, and for that reason they'll see that no harm comes to whatever belongs to me. Too bad for you, but there it is." She pressed a fist into the other palm. "Oh, why doesn't a boat come?" "For safety's sake they're staying away from the coast. I'll tell you one thing." he said grimly. "If something doesn't happen soon, I'll make a break for it myself!" "You mean ... go to sea in a canoe?" she asked fearfully.

"The way I sometimes feel," he said, "I could swim for it! I'm not enjoying this, either—make no mistake about that. The very last thing I wanted when I left Kinoi was to be cut off on a Sumatran beach with a girl I'd never seen before, and this . . ." He broke off, then said quietly, "You're not the only one who feels that life is becoming a little awkward." "It's so different for a man—especially a man like you!" she exclaimed. "If you ever get desperate for the sight of a boat it's because you're angry at what you've been missing." "That may be true," he conceded. "It's also true that if I'd been here alone, I'd somehow have made my way along the coast. That's worth thinking out, from your aspect!" Jenny didn't answer. She leaned beside the window, staring at him, her pallor seeming to deepen the tones of her eyes. This was the real Philip, as angry as he'd permit himself to be at the frustration in their situation. The strong and dashing companion was only part of his character; there was this other, darker side. She knew, unmistakably, that he had spoken the truth. Alone, he would never have built a house and forced himself to wait. He was accustomed to forming his own destiny, and would not have hesitated to penetrate the forest at the edge of the sea and keep going, day after day, till he reached civilization. By now, he might already have been in Singapore. It was she, Jenny, who had held him back. He couldn't .. . wouldn't face the jungle with a woman in tow. He had acted according to his code; built a shelter for her, provided food, and given her the sort of companionship that had both lulled and tormented. Yet all the while, underneath, there had been this desire to get away. And who could blame him, she thought desolately. He had no doubt loved many women, but there was just one of them who had made him want to go back to her, after three years.

She shivered, drew down the hand which had rested on the edge of the window and shifted slightly. Something of what she was experiencing must have got through to him, for his manner softened. "Look here, brownie. . . ." "No, don't. I do know what you've given up." "It wasn't fair to you, to put it that way." "Yes, it was. Please don't say any more." He took the pace or two that divided them; his regard was keen. "Why do you keep hurling yourself against a brick wall? We're here, and we have to do what we can with the situation." "Why can't you behave as you did the first day or two?" she countered ruefully. "It wasn't so bad at the beginning." He closed up. "No, I suppose it wasn't. The trouble is, however you fight against it you get to know each other. You know where to plant the pinpricks and what to avoid if you don't want complications. Before you'd known me half an hour you'd fixed me up with a reputation that may or may not have been founded on fact. You were afraid I'd make love to you, that I might be a philanderer or even something of a bounder. I wonder," his glance became faintly malicious, "if you'd have liked me better if I'd lived up to your expectation?" Coins of color appeared high on her cheekbones. "How dare you say that!" "Women do like the type," he pointed out carelessly, "or men wouldn't become bounders."

Her teeth tightened, her mouth felt stiff. "You should know," she said with finality. There was an acute silence. Unable to endure it for long Jenny looked his way, met a warning glitter in his eyes that turned her heart. Acres stretched between them, an expanse strewn with depth charges. With a quick shaking hand she pushed back the hair from her temple, and because her knees were suddenly uncertain she went to the table and sat down. With a movement that had all the controlled strength of a panther's, he swung towards the door. His voice was dangerously low. "We certainly are getting to know each other," he said, and went out. Alone, Jenny remained intensely still. Her eyes burned, her fists were tight on the table. Everything was intolerable, everything! For two days Jenny felt she was living on the rim of a volcano. It was not that Philip behaved so differently, or that the hours were imbued with a sense of impending climax or disaster. The sun shone heavily, she prepared the meals, suddenly substituted a differently patterned cotton for that which hung at the windows and covered the bed, and waged the normal combat against sand-flies and the depredations of the hermit crabs which were seldom seen but obviously busy. No, the change was within herself, and it was drastic. Outwardly, she remained studiously cheerful if somewhat uncommunicative; not for anything would she have had Philip suspect the secret, agonizing emotions with which she was beginning to live. She thought back to the fairly pleasant and rather young person who had come out to Sumatra with the Bodens and seemed somehow to have been left behind with them at Boekarta. This Jenny Manson was someone entirely new; she did not even appear to be built upon

that other. She was wary and tight-nerved, not too bad an actress, and capable of assuming poise within seconds. She could lie awake at night, a delicious web of pain swathing head and heart, or wake up at dawn in a sweat of unadulterated torment and longing. Jenny no longer knew herself. In appearance, had she realized it, she was even younger than the girl who had arrived with two children at Puleng. Her limbs were brown, the light silky hair had grown from the neat crop into a rough cap of curls that resented sea water, and the tan of her cheeks had given the hazel eyes the depth of good sherry. She needed no make-up; even her lips had an attractive pink tan, and, smiling, they were as inviting as ripe cherries. Once or twice, during those two days, she caught Philip's glance of cynical appraisal and knew, intuitively, that he was remembering how yesterday she had withdrawn her hand to avoid touching him; how this morning she had made the excuse that she wasn't hungry rather than sit with him at breakfast. Such things happened, and she couldn't help them. Unaccountably, she began to worry about the children and other things. Had Peter and Diane reached Singapore, or been forced down at some place on the way? If they were indeed with their aunt, were they well and happy, and had Peter remembered to write to his mother? Mary, of course, could not yet have received a letter because all the roads inland from the coast were under water, and by now she must be feeling rather desperate. What would be the Bodens' reaction when eventually they heard that Jenny was not with the children, but marooned on the Sumatran coast with a stranger? And Lewis? Recently, Jenny had shied away from conjecture about Lewis Garve, but now she remembered with gratitude his readiness to listen to her point of view, his almost staid acceptance of a country which was,

to say the least, vivid and unsettling. Many of her early experiences in Sumatra had been shared with Lewis, and it was to him she owed her own steadiness of outlook upon some of the bizarre customs of the South Seas. Yes, she told herself firmly, she was grateful to Lewis and she regarded him as the perfect friend in odd circumstances. Yet in the same breath she recalled something that made her pause doubtfully, and reflect. The two of them had climbed one of the hills and picnicked. They were smoking a cigarette and looking down over slopes covered with cocoa trees interspersed with the wild flames of poinsettia, when an evil-looking creature had suddenly appeared and demanded money. Lewis had little Malay but a wealth of reasoning power. "I am Dr. Garve of Boekarta," he had said. "Come to my house this evening and I will give you food." But the man hadn't wanted food. He grew abusive and called his friends from their positions behind nearby trees. There had been four men and four saddle donkeys. Lewis had emptied his pockets and the men had jubilantly gone their way. "It's never much use arguing in such a situation," Lewis had afterwards explained equably. "No one carries much cash here, and even that little is enough for such people. I don't think for a moment they'd do one any physical harm, but why risk it?" She had ventured an opinion. "It does seem wrong to give in to such brigands, though." "Would you have had me defy them?" he had asked in some surprise.

"No, of course not, but they know that white people would rather give them money than risk the consequences of refusing, and it makes them bold." "They're just scum," he'd answered lightly. "If giving them a trifle of money keeps them away from the town, all the better. The Sumatrans dislike them as much as we do." Jenny had nodded agreement, and at the time she had thought no more about it. But she knew now that there were some who had more virile ideas upon such subjects. Philip, she was sure, would have taken the greatest pleasure in trussing all four of the "peanut bandits" and delivering them intact to the police. That very afternoon Jenny found the pearl she had been aching to come across; and it wasn't in some inaccessible part of the lagoon but among her own collection of shells. Because they had so far defied normal efforts she determinedly prised open one of the small unprepossessing oysters gathered after the squall, and the pearl rolled out into her palm. It was almost a perfect shape but pale bronze in color, so it was not, she knew, very valuable. Inevitably, she forced open the rest of the oyster shells, and among them she found one more pearl, of seed size and even deeper in color. Her first impulse was to rush out and tell Philip. But somehow, things shared with him had the habit of becoming perilous, so she slipped the pearls in among the shells and put the bags away. She thought of them during the evening, but they seemed unimportant, and next morning something happened which drove them completely from her mind. It was the usual bright morning, heavy with gathering heat. Philip went off early, and Jenny breakfasted alone, feeling sure that this was going to be another day like yesterday, and the day before. She wondered how long the slightly electrical atmosphere could

continue without becoming better or worse, and decided, on a sigh, that there was nothing one could do about it, chiefly because she seemed to be the only one aware of it. Philip was practically his usual self. She had made the camp bed and tidied the room, disposed of the fire and washed out a few things, when a native boy seemed suddenly to appear from behind the house. She knew at once that he was not one of the local boys because he wore the civilized shorts and shirt, but she also knew she had seen him before. He was breathing fast, his clothes were wet, but he remembered to duck his head in greeting. Surprisingly his English was good. "Tabuk, mem. I must speak with Tuan Brooke." "He's up there, where they're building the copra shed." Jenny remembered, suddenly, and added, "You're the missionary's boatboy, aren't you?" He bowed, "I come from him to speak to Tuan Brooke." "You have bad news?" "My tuan is in danger. We have no boat." "What happened?" she demanded. "In the river there is swift water, we are thrown on the rocks and the boat breaks. We get to safety but the boat is gone." "Good heavens," said Jenny soberly. "When was this?" It took him a moment to understand the idiom. "It was yesterday, when the sun was high." "But you left here three days ago!"

He nodded. "We find Puleng and search the trees. No people. So my tuan say we must go more up-river." Jenny fumed at the stupidity of that good man, but she asked, "Where is Tuan Meyer now?" "He is on the bank of the river. He send me for help." "Through the jungle?" "It is all swamp now, mem. I walk and swim." "I'll go with you to find the tuan," she said. Philip, as she had expected, was directing the laying of a log floor at the copra shed site. At the moment the shed was a large rectangle covered only by a thatch, like an awning, and Philip stood outside, his hair tinted red by the sun, his features taut and brown as he watched the matching logs. He looked big and strong, and even in the midst of her anxiety for the missionary, Jenny felt her heart twist painfully. She explained to him, and the boy added further details. Mr. Meyer, it seemed, was too weak to attack the swamp way to Tamarisk Bay; he was hoping Mr. Brooke would come up the Lumani in a canoe. Philip sent the boy with Kaikai to get a meal, flung some instructions at another boy and came down to the house at Jenny's side. "If it was dangerous for Mr. Meyer to go by river, it will be dangerous for you, too," said Jenny urgently. "The boy got through the swamp. Can't you send him back with two or three other boys? Between them, they could bring Mr. Meyer." Philip followed her into the house. "Physically, Meyer is a weak man," he said. "He's had fevers and probably other illnesses that he's

had to get through on his own. A journey through the swamp might kill him. I shall have to take the canoe up the Lumani." Inwardly, Jenny was trembling. "Do you have to go yourself?" A pause. Then he said casually, "I'm afraid so, brownie, but our canoe is a hollowed log and it won't break up." "I'll take two boys. Between us we'll keep it the right way up." "Why did the man have to take such chances?" she exclaimed vexedly. "Supposing he'd found this beach deserted; there would have been no one to call on, then." "It's no use railing against his having done something foolish. His ideas about duty happened to be stronger than his common sense, and now he's taking the consequences. He can't be too happy, at the moment." "I know," she said unhappily. "I feel sorry for the man, but . . ." "You're scared of being left alone?" "It isn't that." If she told him she was anxious for him he'd laugh his head off. She compromised. "I suppose you wouldn't let me go with you?" "I certainly wouldn't. I'll leave Kaikai in charge here; you couldn't have a better bodyguard." "Do you think you'll be gone long?" "In normal times I could be up the Lumani to Puleng and back again in a few hours. With the river against us, it may take till tomorrow morning. It's not too risky in a canoe. Meyer himself might have got

through if he'd had the usual Malay boat instead of that ancient timbered thing." He grinned, but there was a sharpness behind it. "I'll have to get moving right away, and you can look forward to having Meyer as a guest tomorrow." "As humour," she said shortly, "that has a cracked sound." He shrugged. "I thought the same as you did—that we'd seen the last of him. I'll get him away again as soon as I can. One can't promise more." She drew in her lip. "Don't let him run away with any more fancy conclusions, will you? Seeing that you're likely to be alone with him for a while, you might put him right on a few points." "Oddly enough," he said non-committally, "what Meyer thinks doesn't seem to me to be very important. Once we've left this place he'll mean nothing at all in our lives." "And we shall probably mean nothing in each other's lives, either," she felt bound to mention. Philip gave her a cool, speculative smile. "There's something a little maddening about you, my pet, particularly when you make statements you yourself don't believe. You know darn well we shan't forget each other in a hurry." Her heart lurched queerly but she contrived to speak evenly. "I'm not so sure. The way we live is abnormal, and this place—Tamarisk Bay—doesn't even exist on the map; it's more like a dream. That's how it will seem once we're away from it. At Singapore you'll get your plane to Europe; if I get there, I shall probably have to go and live with the children's aunt."

"But you won't forget Philip Brooke," he said mockingly, "any more than I shall forget Jenny Manson. When I'm in Paris with my friends . . ." "With Delice," she inserted in a low voice. He flickered a glance over her small tilted face. "All right," softly, "let's say with Delice. Where were we?" "It doesn't matter." "When you're cut off as we are, everything matters. Oh, yes. Well, when I'm in Paris with . . . Delice, I shall remember little honeybrown with forgiveness and affection. Distance will lend enchantment to something which was only too exasperating while it was happening." "When you're with your lovely Frenchwoman," she said, not meeting his eyes, "you won't need distance to lend enchantment." Unreasonably, she added with a touch of passion, "I only wish you were setting out for France now! This waiting for a ship that never comes is frightful." He lifted his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on. "I don't wonder you're bored to the edge of hysteria," he said. "In your position I might be that way myself. It's just occurred to me that if I can persuade Meyer to stay here with you, I might try to get up the coast to a port. It would take time, but at any rate we'd be doing something constructive." With fear in her voice she answered, "You're doing something constructive here, Philip. Besides, if you did leave us, a boat would be sure to put in soon after; that's how things happen." Yes, I know." He was unsmiling now, and thoughtful. "There's no way of being sure, but I believe you've got thinner since we've been

here. Fish and tinned foods keep one going, but young people need their quota of fresh vegetables and butter and eggs. This may sound rather out of character, but since your smile has been less ready I've had it on my mind." "Have you?" Jenny half closed her eyes ; if he softened, she thought desperately, she would really let go. "It's no worse for me than it is for you." "It is—considerably. I'm able to work up an appetite— sometimes I could almost eat bear meat. Lately, you haven't made a good meal even from the birds we've been able to kill." There was no point in telling him that her objection to almost every type of food was that it tasted fishy. The seabirds lived on fish, and naturally tasted that way. "Food isn't so important," she said. "In some circumstances people live happily near to the famine line." "These just aren't the circumstances, I suppose," he replied offhandedly. Then, very firmly, "Meyer has caused us trouble, so if it's possible to use him once we get him here, I shan't hesitate. But it's no use making plans without him." She moistened her lips. "Don't you think it would be foolish for us to ... to split up now?" He looked down at her, his expression calculating and only faintly touched with humor. "I wonder? They say there's a breaking point in every relationship—a time when you either cut adrift or change your feelings. I'm not sure we aren't pretty close to it." What Jenny might have answered she never knew. A boy called from outside:' "Tuan, the canoe is ready!"

Philip's glance slid away from her, and he answered, "Good. I'm coming." "Are you going just like that?" Jenny whispered in a panic. "What about food and drink?" "They'll be in the boat." His smile at her was gentle. '"We're not going to the South Pole, you know. Come and see us off." He didn't touch her as she passed him to go outside, but Jenny knew, wretchedly, that that was her own fault. Lately, she had demonstrated only too clearly that she found his touch distasteful. He was in a mood, as they swung down to the water-line, to lay an arm across her shoulders and laugh at her fears. She wished he would! The missionary's boat-boy was already there, with Kaikai. The boy who had told them the boat was ready stood at the other side of the canoe, bending to shove out the moment he was told. Kaikai was given long instructions in Malay and Jenny knew they chiefly concerned herself. The man kept looking from his master's face to hers, smiling and nodding. He made the solemn little sign with his two hands which meant that he would follow the commands till death should overcome him. Philip turned to Jenny, and for a moment she felt a thin but precious link between them. "Don't expect me before the morning. And don't get it into your head that I'm doing something dangerous. I'm not." She smiled, and said unsteadily, "Where you're concerned, action is always dangerous!" "Not this time. You're my responsibility, and Meyer isn't. If I weren't sure you'll be absolutely safe with Kaikai, I wouldn't leave you." His fingers almost, but not quite, brushed her chin. "Keep the

hut dusted, brownie. And don't do anything you know I wouldn't approve of!" That was all. With a half-wink over his shoulder, he helped the boys push out the canoe. Two minutes later all three were aboard, and Philip was turning his lean bronzed features towards her and raising a hand. Watching his face become a blur, the canoe recede, Jenny felt her heart constricting, her throat becoming parched. It was only then that she realized how closely Philip had become woven into the fabric of her existence. This man, with the daring good looks of a buccaneer, the aloof smile, the half-derisory gentleness, the innate sense of chivalry, was someone she would never be able to live without. Even when half the world divided them, as it was bound to sooner or later, he would unwittingly be part of Jenny Manson. The knowledge was both appalling and undeniable. For some time she did not move. Then she strolled along the edge of the waves, her bare feet sinking into the smooth wet sand. Kaikai had politely walked to the house and sat himself beside it, and for a while she felt alone as a woman is alone when her husband is called away on business; a strange loneliness, a sensation of being suspended in time till that indispensable part of one's being is restored. She had no right to feel that way, of course, yet she had been more alone with Philip than most married women ever are with their husbands. But for Jenny there could be no satisfaction in such relations. To entertain the fantastic vision of herself married to Philip Brooke would be to court insanity! Standing still and looking over the sea, she admitted that what she most desired were safety and peace of heart. The heat of the sun blended into her thoughts and for a while they were sweet and

warm. Then she recalled that talk with Philip, her own mention of Delice and his almost cynical acceptance of the woman as his reason for going to Paris. She knew a wild and illogical flare of anger against him, and jealously of the Frenchwoman who, after so long, could draw him thousands of miles across the world. Was he in love with her? Rollers glittered in the sunshine and splintered over the reef. Shore scents of blossoms and wood fires and damp earth mingled with the salt of the sea, and back there in the forest mango, breadfruit, banana and coconut trees formed a dense barrier to the hinterland, where abandoned rice farms lay buried in water and the mountains rose, rugged but covered with more lush woodland. Was Philip in love with the dark young woman of the photograph? Jenny had the unshakable conviction that he was.

CHAPTER SIX IT was getting towards noon when the freighter anchored beyond the reef. Jenny was in the house mending a tear in her own frock when Kaikai gave a few sharp exclamations in his own tongue, and added rather shrilly: "Ship alonga, mem! Pliss come!" Jenny couldn't believe it. But there it was, a small black coastal vessel giving off a thin spiral of smoke not more than two hundred yards the other side of the reef. And already inside the lagoon moved a rowing-boat of a type Jenny hadn't seen since England. To cap everything, the single oarsman was white! A thousand thoughts crowded into her mind: regret that on this tremendous day Philip was not here, conjecture about the man's nationality, an assortment of hopes and fears. When the man was within a dozen yards of the beach she went to meet him; and before he turned about she saw that he was young, that his hair was black and curly under the peaked cap, that his hands were smallish and brown and muscular. His astonishment when the boat was beached was amply apparent in the wide blue eyes, the hasty dragging off of the cap, the jaw that tried not to fall apart. He stared at Jenny, looked up the beach, and stared at her again. "Gosh," he said. "This is some change since the last time I was this way." Then, bending his head and speaking with the utmost politeness, "Speak a little English or Dutch?" The absurdity of the scene smote Jenny suddenly. She threw back her head and laughed. "Spik Engleesh, a leetle," she said, "at least, as well as you do."

He let out a breath, kept the astonished smile. "You belong here?" "No. Who are you?" "The name is Ben Wellard. I run the freighter out there .for a Dutch company at Medan. Do you know Medan?" "Only that it's a very long way up the coast. Is that where you're bound for now?" He nodded. "I don't get this at all. Your family here?" Jenny shook her head. "It's a long story. Come up and have some coffee." "Thanks." He put his hands in his pockets and walked at her side, still glancing at her as if she could not be quite real. "I came here looking for the trader, but I noticed from the deck that his place isn't there any more. I took a look at this beach and decided to investigate. Is that a copra shed up there?" "Yes, it isn't quite finished. It has yet to be walled in. Your ship," she hesitated, and chose her words. "Does it take passengers?" "It's not built for it, but at the moment there's room on deck for a half dozen. I've a crew of five Javanese, and we've just finished a long trip." "What sort of a trip?" "Trading. I left Medan with crude oil for Celebes seven months ago. I had a six months' contract to trade around the islands, but the time was up last month, and I've been ordered to get back to Medan before the weekend. I expect they have another cargo waiting." He paused to admire the stove. "How did this survive from the Middle Ages?"

"Sit down, and I'll tell you while you drink your coffee. Excuse me a minute while I get the cups." When she came back he was seated on the sand, with Kaikai some little distance away, watching. The Malay took his betel box from the folds of his sarong, selected a piece of betel nut, wrapped it in a sireh leaf and put it in his mouth. Thus, he managed very well without food. Ben made a face over the coffee. "No milk or sugar?" "No sugar, and only a tin or two of evaporated milk." "Well, if you can do without, I can." He managed a larger sip, then placed the cup on the sand beside his upturned cap. Curiously, he said, "This is the sort of thing that might happen in a dream. You know—heat and drink and opium pictures. I don't see any other white people around," Carelessly, she said, "There aren't any, just now. I'm here alone for the day." "You live with your father?" "No." He had a good face, honest eyes and an inquiring disposition; he made her wonder what it would sound like, to hear her story for the first time. "You see, I'm really a governess, up-country." "Without haste, she went on with the explanation in the flattest tones possible. She had left the plantation with two children, a man had given up his seat in the plane for them and escorted her to the coast. That was nearly three weeks ago, and this was the first ship to come close enough to see and be seen. Unbelieving, he shook those dark curls. His shaggy brows drew together. "You're not the torrid East. You look like some wild sprite

of the woods." Then he blushed. I'm not usually poetic, but you've knocked me off my stroke." She smiled. "It shook me when it first happened. I'm used to it now." Reluctant to hear what he would certainly say soon, she asked, "What was it you wanted at the trader's?" "It's not really important. The chief gets mad if I arrive back with an empty medicine chest—thinks it's a bad sign. I meant to fill it up with a few aspirins and bismuth tablets. He'll just have to simmer." He tried the coffee again and did his best not to grimace. "I expect you think I'm awfully inquisitive." "Not unduly, so far," she answered, with reserve. "You don't mind my asking questions?" Jenny leant back and crossed her fingers in the sand, lest she have to varnish the truth. "Not within reason. To you, this must seem an odd set-up." "Well," he said artlessly, "you are rather too young and pretty to be kicking around alone. What about this . . . this man who came here with you? Where is he?" Jenny uncrossed her fingers. There was no evading it; so she explained, as nonchalantly as she was able, and took good care not to look his way as she ended, "Don't get any wrong impressions, will you? Mr. Brooke has been marvellous, and it was for my sake he stayed here." "I'd stay here for your sake myself," he said ingenuously. "In fact, I don't think I'd want any ships to come calling."

She smiled briefly, and of their own volition her fingers re-crossed. "We've been aching for a ship to come within hailing distance. I wish Mr. Brooke could have been here to see you come in." "So do I." But he sounded doubtful. He turned his head to look at the house, threw another quick glance at Jenny, and rested back on his hands, as if to ponder. Covertly, she watched him for a minute, and what she saw was reassuring, but somehow depressing. Not than Ben Wellard was a depressing sight. He was too buoyant for that. He couldn't be thirty yet, but he had the rather old and raw, good looks that inevitably belong to the sea. She knew that in his somewhat limited fashion he was weighing up the situation, and she was horribly afraid his conclusions would be of the obvious type. He seemed to be nice and uncomplicated, but such people are not always the easiest to handle. "Have you arranged to go back to your ship for lunch?" she asked quickly. "There'll be some chow ready at one o'clock." He smiled boyishly. "Perhaps you'll come and have some with me?" "I think not, thanks." "You'll be all right with me," he assured her. He nodded towards Kaikai. You can bring old Eagle Eye along if you like." "As a matter of fact," she said, smiling, "you couldn't shake him off. He'd swim the distance rather than let me out of his sight." "Like that? He must be one of these boys who'd do anything for a certain type of white man. Your Mr. Brooke must be something special."

Jenny avoided replying to this. "Do you have any tea aboard?" "Yes, of course." "Really? It sounds like heaven! Could you send me some?" "I'll tell you what," he said with enthusiasm. "I'll go to the ship now and bring back a dish of whatever's cooking. It'll probably be chicken curry and rice. And I'll bring some tea, too, so that we can have a cup straight after lunch. Suit you?" "Perfectly!" He stood up and said uncertainly, "You're sure your Mr. Brooke won't be back before dark, quite sure?" "He said tomorrow morning." "Well ... I shan't be able to wait here for him, you know." A slight chill feathered across Jenny's skin, but she answered, "No? We'll have to talk it over later." This appeared to please Ben. He gave her his young-old smile, said he wouldn't be long and went down to his small boat. Jenny didn't watch him go. She went into the house and sat down on the side of the camp bed, dropped her forehead into her hand and tried to think clearly. The ship had come at last, and brought with it a problem she had no idea how to meet. The irony of it! There was Philip, impatient to get away on a plane to Europe, and when the chance came he was struggling, instead, up the river, and it was impossible to reach him. Perhaps this young Ben Wellard could be persuaded to remain at Tamarisk Bay till Philip returned. After all, he traded for money, and Philip would pay him well.

This had to come to an end, she thought bleakly. Better now than at some time in the future, when they might have reached and passed the breaking point that Philip had foreseen. It was stupid to deceive herself into believing that the longer the two of them remained at the beach the greater the likelihood that she would find some precious balm for her own prickly emotions. Intuitively, she knew that the constraint between them would grow more pronounced. Philip could banter, compliment her on her housekeeping and cooking, take her for short walks into the forest or approve the progress she made with the Australian crawl, but underneath the situation would remain unaltered it might even become a great deal more strained without showing up on the surface. Jenny must have sat there for some time, because she was roused by the sounds of the young man's return. Swiftly, she filled a bowl with mangoes and bananas, and coming through the doorway she said gaily: "This is going to be a treat! That curry does smell good. And I can hardly wait for a cup of tea!" She had intended that they should eat outdoors, but the heat was too intense. The beach shimmered, the lagoon lay like a pan of hot glass and up at the Malay huts everything had gone somnolent. Even Kaikai stretched himself out in the thin shade of a palm, but Jenny knew that he slept as a dog does, with one eye open. So she spread the cotton tablecloth and set out plates and knives and forks, and Ben stood by awkwardly, taking in all he could see of the room. "It's such a strange way for a girl like you to live, he said, after he had taken his place at the small table. "You don't strike me as the sort of person who could rough it, and that makes it even more

surprising. Because you do rough it, considerably; yet somehow you look as if you find it all very normal." "I can assure you I don't!" she retorted. "Apart from a horrible navy thing that I arrived here in, I've only two frocks, a boy's shorts and some shirts which are washed every other day and never ironed. My hair badly needs attention and my nails are terrible. I'm sick of the sight and smell of fish that I never eat it if I can help it . . . and you'll never know how much I'm looking forward to plain curry and rice!" "Maybe so, but it seems to me you're taking it wonderfully well." "What else can I do? If I hadn't made the best of it I'd have been flat out long before this. It hasn't been difficult, really, and parts of it have been great fun. Mr. Brooke is hoping to establish a copra station here, and the Malays are thrilled. They've never before lived at the coast, but they like it immensely." "If it does grow into a copra station this may become a regular call of mine." He shook his head, wonderingly. "The man sure seems to have accomplished a lot in a short time. I believe I've heard his name before, but I can't think where." "I don't suppose you have," she said quickly. "Will you serve the curry?" After the curry they had fruit, and then, in a jug, Jenny made the long-awaited cup of tea. It wasn't like tea straight from a pot, but it tasted ambrosial nevertheless. Oozing a gentle sweat, she drank three cups of it, and because both the hour and the day were slightly narcotic and Jenny the best of listeners, Ben told her his life story. Actually, Jenny brought it on herself, by asking, "Isn't it rather strange for a young Englishman to be trading in these waters? Don't you find it difficult, sometimes, dealing with so many nationalities?"

Ben offered cigarettes, lit them. "My mother's Dutch,' he said. "Her father was a planter in Java. My father was the old man's superintendent, and that's where I was born —on the plantation. I was educated in an English school in Singapore, and by the time I was through the Indonesian troubles were well away, so I got a job there, and my mother came to live with me. Later, my father joined us; he had to sell the plantation and he'd decided to take my mother to England. They're living there now, in Yorkshire." "Didn't you feel an urge to go with them?" He gave her an engagingly frank smile. "I had so many friends in this part of the world, and I had doubts about being able to make a living in England." "It's a seafaring country, you know!" "Sure. But it's only in places like this that a fellow as young as I am would be given command of a freighter. Once I've left Medan I'm as much my own boss as if I owned the ship. If I got married . . ." He stopped suddenly, as though he had blundered, but recovered firmly. "If I got married I could have double quarters fitted up on the ship. It's a great life, even for a woman, if she's the right kind." "I'm sure it is," said Jenny warmly. "I daresay one day you'll have a freighter of your own." He looked at her earnestly. '"How did you guess that?" Jenny hadn't guessed it. It had merely been an obvious thing to say. "Well, of course you will," she said cheerfully. "A farm manager always looks forward to having land of his own; even a shop assistant sometimes dreams of branching out for himself. So why shouldn't you have a similar ambition? But I expect a trading vessel is costly."

"Yes, it is." He leaned over the table, absorbed. "It's possible to get started on a few hundred, though. You put down all you have, and make out the insurance in favour of the company you're buying from. Then you pay off the bond at the end of each trading voyage. The snag is, you might have had bad luck in the way of big repair bills, but there's tons of trading for the picking, and if you're careful ..." In spite of herself, Jenny became deeply interested. Ben Wellard was a transparent young man, his ambitions on the whole fairly orthodox, but he knew the Indian Ocean, the Celebes and Molucca Seas as well as a planter knows the lanes between his trees, and if he was trying to impress one couldn't blame him. As he said himself, "It's such a long, long time since I've spoken to anyone like you. There's an English woman who runs a hotel at Kanin, but she's spoken the local lingo so long that her English has an accent. Then there are the oil people at Medan, and in your travels you come across a few from the West. But there's no one just like you. You don't know how glad I am that I decided to have a poke around this beach!" The afternoon drifted by. Ben had a pack of cards in his pocket, and he brought them out and showed her some oriental games for two people. He showed her a pack of Chinese cards and explained the symbols, and when she offered to buy them he insisted on giving them to her. He looked at his watch, looked at Jenny, and was patently reluctant to move. But it was he who at last approached what lay unspoken between them. "I'm afraid I'll have to get away by sundown," he said apologetically. "It'll take me all the spare time I have to get to Medan."

"Can't you treat this as an extra bit of trading?" she asked. "Mr. Brooke is most anxious to get away, and I'm quite sure he'll be back by tomorrow morning. We can be all ready to leave the moment he shows up." "I thought he was so keen on making this a copra station?" "So he is, but not much can be done till the ships are able to call; he'll probably fix things up with an agent in Singapore. Is it easy to get transport from Medan to Singapore?" He nodded. "I may be going there myself, with more oil. But I can't wait here today after sundown. I just daren't." "Not if he pays you an outsize fee for the trip?" "I'm afraid not. If I delayed a further twelve hours I couldn't possibly get in on time, and I might lose my ship. I can't afford to risk it. Honestly, Miss. . . . Miss Jenny . . . you'll come to no harm with me." Jenny let this sink in. Carefully, she said, "It's not myself I'm thinking of. In any case, Mr. Brooke has been too good to me for me to walk out while he's away." "But he must be very anxious for you to return to your people! If he's the kind of man I suspect him to be, he'll be overjoyed to know you're safely off his hands. By leaving, you'll be doing him a good turn!" This was so likely to be true that Jenny felt anger rising in her against the blundering young Ben. He meant well, but he was rasping sore spots. ' "If you won't wait for him, there's an end of it," she said abruptly.

He grinned unhappily. "Don't you see how I'm placed? I don't work for English people and I'm already a month over-due. I've been given this deadline—probably because they have an important cargo which has to leave at once. If Medan were nearer . . ." "Yours is the first ship to come near the reef," she broke in, "but there'll be others." "But you're stranded here! I can't leave you behind. Write the man a note and I'll have a talk with the bodyguard. It's the sensible course to take." She shook her head. "I can't do that to him." She got to her feet. "Let's have another cup of tea before you go." They made and drank it outside, while the sun slipped down behind the forest, and found singularly little to say to each other. Kaikai sat under his trees with other shadows lengthening about him, and used sand to clean the red betel stain from his teeth. New fires burned bright up at the huts, and one of the younger Malays was banging a musical drum, knocking out that rhythm which Europeans have tried in vain to recapture. At last Ben said, rather humbly, "I'll be leaving. If you can get a boy to follow me in a canoe I'll give him some supplies for you. Tea and sugar, some notepaper, a couple of paper-backed novels, even a frozen chicken or two." Jenny answered him brightly, "No, I won't accept anything, thanks. It's been nice seeing you." And that, more or less, was that. As he stood beside his rowing boat he did plead, "Sure you won't change your mind? I'll gladly give you my cabin and sleep on deck, and if you like, the minute we reach Medan I'll arrange transport for Singapore. If you should have to

stay over a night or two, there's an awfully nice couple I sometimes board with." "Thanks, but no." She held out a hand. "Good-bye, Ben." He squeezed her fingers, let out a sigh and got into his boat. Because she knew it really did distress him to leave her there, Jenny was sorry for him. But she would have been much sorrier for herself had she been there in the boat, with him, bound for Medan! Without thinking too much about it, she set about obliterating the signs of Ben Wellard's visit. She smoked a couple of the cigarettes he had left behind, and buried the rest. His curry pot was not so different from her own utensils, and would never be noticed, but the pack of Chinese playing cards she slipped into the pocket of her handbag. There was nothing else only the feeling of his having been here, in the house, of the day gone much more quickly than she had anticipated. He had decidedly done one good turn for her; taken her mind from that canoe trip up the swollen Lumani. By now, Philip would have reached the missionary, and even though Mr. Meyer hardly inspired one with confidence, it was good to feel they were together for the return journey. With Mr. Meyer in his care, Philip would take no risks. Having had a fair meal at lunch time, she ate only fruit that evening, and it was still quite early when she undressed. Kaikai and another boy had posted themselves one each side of the entrance, and she could hear them exchange an occasional word or two, smell the aromatic smoke from their pipes and the spicy manioc porridge they ate with their fish. She lay down and read a little Keats, closed the book and slipped her hands under her head. The flame of the one candle flickered and

threw shadows over the thatch, and in spurts a sand lizard ran up the wall. It reminded Jenny of the snake which had curled up one night in the corner between the top of the grass wall and the slope of the thatch. She had watched it for a long time, willing it to disappear through one of the crevices, till at last Philip had called, "Douse the glim, brownie, or the candles won't last out." She had crawled out of bed, poked her head outside, and whispered that there was a snake in the corner. He had dealt with it easily, and taken a good look around to ensure there were no kin on the premises. Then he had made her get back into bed, and himself had snuffed the candle. It was one of those close yet unemotional moments when she loved him most. Thinking about it, Jenny moved her dry lips into the ghost of a smile. But as her thoughts moved on, the smile faded. She had to make a decision, a difficult one. It was not until some time after Ben Wellard's departure that she consciously wondered whether it would be wise to tell Philip about the freighter calling at Tamarisk Bay. At first, it had seemed that she could carry it off lightly. "What filthy luck, just after you'd gone! But the man couldn't possibly wait for you to come back, so we're just where we were!" But Philip wouldn't leave it there; she could almost hear the crisp questions. How long was he here? Why all that time? Did he strike you as a genuine sort? Was he willing to take you with him? Well, (with lifted brow and infuriating smile) why didn't you go? If he had the truth from her he would guess why she had stayed, and at the very thought Jenny went cold and white. The only way to live with him was to be as aloof and uncaring as he was. She might imply that she hadn't quite trusted Ben, but that seemed treacherous.

She might say she hadn't liked the idea of changing ships at Medan, but that wouldn't hold conviction, either; she still had a supply of Tim Boden's money, and in Medan she would have been able to clothe herself decently, and so arrive adequately attired in Singapore. The more she conjectured, the less was she willing to risk her heart's exposure. For the truth was, she couldn't leave Philip till there was no other way out. It was crazy, it promised nothing but shattering heartache, but for Jenny Manson, who had never loved before and would never love again, there was no alternative. She would sooner stay with Philip under any conditions than of her own free will go out now to face the world knowing it was all over. When the parting came, let it be carefree by all means; on no account, though, could she hasten it by an action of her own. She was utterly mad, of course. According to the best authorities on psychology this was one of those situations that was best ended almost before it was begun. They wrote pityingly of giving love where it wasn't wanted, pointed out that there was nothing to be gained and all to lose: Words, all of it. There was plenty of happiness alongside the despair. At least, that had become Jenny's opinion, during Philip's absence. Perhaps the truth of it was that she couldn't bear to contemplate having seen him for the last time. Supposing she decided to tell him nothing whatever about Ben Wellard. Was he likely to find out in some other way? She didn't think so. Philip dealt with the Malays through Kaikai, so it was only Kaikai himself who might spill the beans, and the boy would naturally expect "the mem" Jo give the news the minute the tuan got back. Understanding something of the Malay mind, Jenny knew the boy would take this so much for granted that it would not occur to him to mention the coming of the freighter; it was white people's business and not to be pried into. How lucky, thought Jenny hollowly, that the Malays were so meticulously polite!

She nipped the wick of the candle and settled back into the coir pillow. An hour later she was still wide awake and torn between the desire to be honest with Philip and the certainty that if she was, she would be entirely at his mocking mercy. As to this last, she would rather be on the way to Medan than face it! Kaikai rattled a stick against the grass wall. "Mem, Pliss, mem!" She swung out of bed, dropped her coat about her shoulders and looked outside. A woman sat bowed on the sand, utterly still. At her side, Kaikai waved frenzied hands, and another of the men suddenly let out a long cry. "Baby die, mem," bawled Kaikai. He made a revolting choking sound in his throat, and added, "Like this, mem Baby die like this." His behaviour was so unlike that of bereaved families Jenny had known at the plantation, that she hurriedly slipped her arms into the coat and held up a stern hand. She was afraid the man's excitement might communicate itself to the rest of the family. After all, he was supposed to be their head. The woman in the sand raised her face and whispered something, but at the same moment a screeching broke out at the huts, and all three Malays turned to run that way, though Kaikai turned and begged the mem to "Come, pliss." Jenny had been to the huts before. With looks and gestures she had admired the tidy interiors, the rolled pandanus mats, the planed log upon which food was served, the pieces of faded batik draping the walls. Now, though, there was hardly a square inch of the main hut that wasn't occupied. A dozen or so Malays were in there on their knees, and in the centre of them lay the smallest of the children, a sallow-faced little boy of about two. His eyes were closed, and about his nose and lips was a blueness that caused a shudder to run

down Jenny's spine. She had seen the child playing only this afternoon. "What was it?" she asked Kaikai, and at the sound of her voice the others bowed their heads and fell silent. "The baby eat fish. Is well. Go to bed." Once more he made the sounds of suffocation. "Is gone." A paralysis had possession of Jenny. How did one handle this kind of incident? A dead baby; they were full of grief and she was alone with them. Even Kaikai seemed to have lost his reason. Sweat broke out across her forehead and in the nape of her neck. There was no air in the hut; only a hot spicy odour blended with the reek of joss sticks and the rank smell of coconut oil. Her impulse was to turn and run out into the air, but she had the feeling that if she did, Philip would lose the hold he had gained over them. What in the world did they expect of her? Her knees shaking, she moved a step closer to the child. Brown faces, imploring dark eyes, were lifted her way, and she felt a new runnel of sweat trickling down her back. Her mouth was stiff as she tried to look her sympathy. But it wasn't sympathy they wanted; they pleaded for a miracle. Through a blur, Jenny stared at the inert little figure. What shall I do, repeated her brain. What shall I do? That couldn't possibly have been a tremor in the child! But if it was . . . Jenny could never have explained afterwards why she bent forward and snatched up the little boy by his feet. Perhaps in that moment she was given instinctive knowledge, just as it must have been instinctive to rub his back frantically till he gasped and was sick.

The clamour was deafening. The child howled suddenly with such lustiness that Jenny dropped him into the nearest lap, and after a swaying moment she staggered into the night. She stood under the moon, clasping her aching temples, till Kaikai came out, heading the stream of his family. He was too excited to speak in English. "All right, Kaikai," she said. "Tell them to go to bed." He followed her down to the house. Jenny went in to light one of Mr. Meyer's cigarettes, and she came out to smoke it. Kaikai was standing there, looking out to sea and moving his locked fingers. She saw his smile. "I say thank you alonga white mem," he said softly. "Don't give your baby fish with bones in it," she said, "or it will happen again." He kept smiling and she knew he hadn't understood. He went on giving thanks, and, still weak and exasperated, she walked away from him to finish the cigarette. The young moon laid a path across the lagoon, shone on the coral rocks. A disturbed jungle fowl cried in the stillness, and she thought she heard the distant barking of the little wild dogs which Malays sometimes keep to eat; it could have been almost any animal, though. Any forest near a river teemed, in normal times, with live things. She thought of the Lumani at Puleng, the bowed mangroves, the lone pole sticking up here and there where a house had been. The river, she reflected, is always part of the tropical scene; its heavy texture belongs in the heat and mystery of the jungle. For some reason she could not drag her mind from the Lumani. She thought of the queer, pastel-tinted fungoids that festooned the trees

on its bank:, of the pallid orchids which grew anywhere that a seed might take hold, of succulent vines lacing together the branches of cottonwood and mahogany, of palm and banana. And she thought of the blue morning mist among the trees. Morning anywhere, she decided as she turned back to the house, often came as a relief. In bed she was wide awake. There was no sound at all from the Malays, but she kept seeing them crowded into the hut, yelling both with pain and happiness. Had the child been ill for some days they would have accepted its death with decent, quiet grief; apparently they had been caught with their defences down. Oh, well, it was over. She merely had to relax and forget it. But as the Malay child slipped from her mind, Ben Wellard came back into it. Perhaps, after all, she should have gone with him. It would have been such a simple end to the affair. A note to Philip: "I decided that this was best for both of us. You're free now to consider only yourself. Thank you again for all you've done for me. . . ." How would he have looked as he read it? Cynical at first, perhaps, and then relieved. He'd have shrugged, might even have said aloud, "Good luck, brownie." And then he'd have made plans for the sort of journey only a man could take. Jenny Manson would be behind him ... and Delice would come a little nearer to the end of the rainbow. Too late now. She had committed them both to further days at Tamarisk Bay, perhaps further weeks. And somehow, though her heart turned at the enormity of it, she was fatalistically glad. She didn't want to imagine him on his way up the coast alone; it was loo much the kind of challenge he enjoyed! And she had to admit she wasn't sorry he could not yet set out for Paris. Oh, heavens, if only she could get to sleep!

Occasionally the thatch cracked as an unoccupied cane chair will, for no reason at all, and Jenny found herself listening for it, till a cock squawked, and she knew it to be after midnight. She had noticed before that the chickens in the Malay enclosure had a spell of restlessness about this time. She thought of getting up to make some coffee, but her limbs had become heavy and her will seemed to be sailing away. She had a queer, half-waking dream in which she was locked up somewhere, and a man was laughing, a slow mocking laugh from well-cut lips, while his eyes glinted like greenish-glue stones caught in moonlight. "Are you awake, Jenny?" She dragged herself up from the deeps, listened again for the soft voice. It didn't come, so she said, "Who is it?" "Only Philip." He was holding aside the matting at the doorway, and stood there, silhouetted in silver. "Didn't waken you, did I?" "No. Oh, no." Her heart bounced like a boat on joyful waves. "You're back early." "Yes„ Meyer wasn't far beyond Puleng. He's all right now. I thought I'd let you know at once that I'm back, in case you were uneasy at being alone." "I'm glad you did. I'll get up and make some coffee." "No, we'll get to sleep." A pause; then, in his more usual, slightly scoffing tone, "Been getting along fairly well, brownie?" Without thinking, she answered, "I've missed you." She heard the smile in his voice as he answered, "Don't be beguiled by moonshine. You'll probably withdraw that in the morning."

She would have liked him to lie gently: "I missed you too." But he didn't have to lie to women; he managed them admirably without it. "Well, anyway," she said lightly into the darkness, "it's nice to know you're back. I expect you're tired." "A bit. Good night, little one." The matting rustled into position, and Jenny relaxed, letting a sweet drowsiness steal over her. Life at Tamarisk Bay was complete and ordinary once more. Perhaps not ordinary, but . . . Her throat and chest tightened. In those minutes while Philip had stood outlined in the doorway she had thought only of him, the blessedness of having him back, the delicious awareness he aroused merely by using his voice. She had seen the wide shoulders, the lifted head, had had no difficulty in visualizing the lean features, the half- derisive mouth. His appearance had driven everything else from her mind. And for that reason she was committed to say nothing whatever about Ben Wellard's visit to the beach. Because, of course, Philip would consider the call of the freighter of first importance. She should have sat up quickly, exclaimed her news and bewailed the fact that he had been away. But if she had, he would have guessed at once why she had let the ship depart without her. So the circling in her brain began all over again. It was nearly light before Jenny dozed.

CHAPTER SEVEN JENNY came out into the vivid morning sunshine to find slices of salted meat sizzling in a pan over the camp fire, and the coffee steaming nearby. Philip,- his hair thick and coppery in the sun, was on his haunches attending to the breakfast and inspecting two very small hen's eggs in a tin. He looked up at her. "Hallo. No swim this morning?" "I'll go down later. Where did you get those eggs?" "It. seems one of the hens up yonder started laying a day or two ago. Kaikai brought these down for you." "But the children should have them." "That's what I said, though not very emphatically. You need eggs every day. But I can't think just why they brought you their first ones." Jenny felt light and free. "Why shouldn't they?" she demanded. "You're not the only important person around here. They're honoring you all the time, so you mustn't get huffy when I have a turn. Where's Mr. Meyer?" "On his way to his mission. I gave him our boat." "Gracious! What for?" His shoulders lifted. "He got pigheaded again, and I couldn't see what we'd gain by having him around, so I let him drop me here." Jenny stood looking down at the long lines of his nose and jaw. "I thought you were going to use Mr. Meyer— make him stay with me while . . ."

"It didn't work out," he said, calmly breaking the eggs into "the hot fat. "Meyer's a good man, but too stubbornly of the opinion that he's right to be of much help to us. He did suggest that he'd take care of you at his mission if I was anxious to get moving up the coast." "Did he?" Jenny watched him closely. "What did you say?" He smiled across at her, his eyes taunted a little. "He agreed with me that husband and wife should stick together. Don't stiffen up, brownie. This time we really have seen the last of the man. Will you get the plates?" She insisted on his having one of the eggs, and when they were served she asked about the trip up-river to rescue the missionary. He gave her details. It had taken him and the boys till late afternoon to reach Puleng. "Judging by the look of the mountains from the river, the rains are shifting, and we may get them here even yet. You can tell where Puleng used to be by the width of the river at the clearing, but that's all, and water is streaming through the forest at almost the same rate as the river in its own channel. It was a fight all the way. Meyer's boat-boy found him more or less where he'd left him the night before, and he was worn out. We got him into the canoe and fed him fish and hot coffee from the thermos, and after that he revived. The trip back was tricky but quicker, Meyer sent you his best wishes, by the way." "Thanks." Jenny finished her breakfast, accepted her cup of coffee and drew up her knees. Absent-mindedly, she rubbed the heat blisters which had formed in the crease at the back of her left knee, and she thought how nice it would be to possess some calamine or even talcum. Salt

water made the blisters smart and didn't harden them as it should. Still, they were only a minor irritation. "Do you think we can rely on buying eggs from the Malays from now on?" she asked idly." "They won't have many, but I'll see that you get a quota. Fortunately, they seem to have decided that, like the children, you need nourishment." "Not at all," she said demurely. "Your Malays have gained a tremendous respect for the white men. Last night I whipped their youngest back from the grave." Philip stared. "You what?" "That's going rather far," she admitted. "The child's tough and would probably have coughed up the fish-bone some time without my help, but I certainly acted as a white man should. You ought to be proud of me." He didn't look proud. "Go on," he said abruptly. Jenny kept her tone breezy. "It must have been around nine o'clock. They all went a bit mad and Kaikai called me out. I went up to the hut to investigate, and there they all were, crouching round the baby. I was . . ." She stopped, to choose another word, and Philip spoke first. "You were going to say terrified!" "Yes, but I wasn't really frightened. I just didn't want to do the wrong thing. I still don't know why I grabbed the baby by its feet, but I do know I was mighty glad it got results!" "Did Kaikai ask you to go up there?" he queried sharply.

"Not really. He wanted to go himself and didn't dare leave me. You mustn't blame him. If I'd ordered him to stay he would have done so." Philip's face had darkened. "I trusted him, but I won't again." Jenny put down her cup. "You mustn't say that. They were all beside themselves because the baby's illness was so sudden. It was just bad luck that it happened on the one night you weren't here." She thought of that other thing which had happened during his absence, and went on quickly, "If you had been here, we'd probably both have gone up, and I'd have done the same." He was unsmiling. "The Malays are a dignified people, but it takes only one among them to lose his head for the rest to become irresponsible. I won't leave you here alone again, but if they should come for you while I'm out fishing or on the next beach, tell them they must wait. I'll tell Kaikai that he must bring his troubles only to me; in fact, I'll threaten him with destruction of their store of copra if he doesn't!" Jenny let out a sigh. "For a nice man you can get awfully nasty. I wish you'd let the whole thing drop." "I'll deal with it in my own way—one they'll respect." He lifted a warning forefinger. "And don't get too conceited about what must have been a stroke of pure luck." "It was instinct," she declared firmly. "Instinct, my foot. You haven't even the instinct to protect your own health. That's why I always have you watched when you take a swim. Now, look here, Jenny. . ."

"All right, all right," she said resignedly. "But if they bring a chicken for our dinner don't turn it down. On their gratitude, we may get through the whole day without fish." He laughed. "On your good days you have an appealing sense of humor, little one. Today you resent me like hell, but you're determined to smile it off. Any reason?" She pushed her bare feet into the sand. "Maybe I really am glad to have you back," she said airily. "Well, well! For that, I'll take you into the forest with me to choose a tree for the new boat. But you'll have to wear shoes." "I'm saving them," she protested. "I can't arrive barefoot in Singapore." "If we reach there together, I promise to go ashore and get you some before you disembark. Go and put them on." For Jenny, it was one of the best days for a long time. They went into the forest and Philip marked his tree. In their quest for firewood the Malays had cleared the growth between the trees for some distance, and Jenny was able to lean against a trunk and feel the dappled sunshine on her face, the cool, spongy earth underfoot. It was while she leaned there that a nut dropped beside her and made her look up. She stood back, to get a better view of the brown furry ball that sat up in the branches, fixing her with bright beady eyes. "Philip!" she called urgently, softly. He came behind her. "A baby bear," he said. "Shall I get it down?" "No, leave it. Don't they generally live on the ground?"

"I don't suppose they like too much water any more than the rest of us. I used to keep a small Malayan bear at Kinoi. It roamed freely in the house and garden and was no trouble at all, except when the governor came on a visit. On those occasions the little beast always put on a tantrum, and when he took a fancy to the feathers on the old man's helmet, I had to get rid of him." Jenny laughed. "You know you can tell me what you like about Kinoi, because I've no way of disproving it." "True," he admitted lazily. "By the same token you can be as expansive as you wish about the rubber plantation and your doctor." A pause. "You never are very talkative about Dr. Garve, though, are you? Yet you sleep with his book beside you every night. Does it comfort you?" "It's all I have to read." "You took it from your case at Puleng, didn't you? If it had been another book, something you had bought yourself, would you have troubled to bring it along that day?" Jenny thought back. "Perhaps not." "It was a link with Lewis Garve?" "A link with Boekarta." "More than that, surely!" His tone was prodding, sarcastic. "Didn't you say it was a birthday present? Then a kiss must have gone with it." Jenny looked upwards again at the baby bear. "It probably wasn't what you'd call a kiss," she said evenly.

"I dare say not." The words were just faintly clipped. "You know something? While you hang on to that book you still belong, of your own will, to Lewis Garve." He had implied a challenge, but without much emphasis. Jenny was silent a moment. Then she smiled, casually. "I hadn't thought of it that way. It seems rather a big responsibility to heap upon a little leather-bound volume." "The whole world hinges on little things," he said dismissively. "Let's mark another tree, in case that one happens to be rotten at the centre." The bear scampered along a branch and disappeared into the leaves. Philip scored a cross on a second tree and picked for her a spray of snow-white feather fern. They strolled back to the house in time for lunch. Mid-afternoon, Jenny got into her swim suit, and Philip, coming, down from the copra shed, said that if she'd wait a minute he would come too. So Jenny paddled at the edge of the lagoon with the sun warming her skin, and with her toe she turned up one of the small oysters. She had picked it up and was looking at it when Philip joined her. "I collected some like this after the squall," she told him. "The other day I opened about twenty and found two bronze pearls." "Pearls! You didn't say." "Well, no." She hesitated. "You and I didn't like each other much that day." His inflection was tantalizing. "In the light of which, pearls were of secondary importance?"

"No," she answered untruthfully. "I thought they weren't of much value." "Individually, they're not, but you can generally find the type in big quantities. They're called pipi oysters, and they have different habits from the genuine pearl oyster. Where they do exist, they're mostly in shoals on coral ledges. Do you feel up to swimming as far as the reef?" "Of course!" The water came chill on her hot back, and then deliciously cool. The back of her knee stung, but she ignored it. This was like a corner of paradise; the lagoon so startlingly clear that the strange shapes of the coral were like Neptune's vases, holding anemones that were purple and scarlet and a lovely brick-red edged with white. The sky arched overhead, blue-white with heat, and the beach, from this distance, might have been a palm- fringed island. The mountains could have been banked clouds, stagnating. She watched Philip's long slow stroke and knew he was fitting his speed to hers. He was two yards away, dead level, but nearer the reef he went ahead and pulled himself on to the rock, so that he could give her a hand. She sat above the sea, breathing deeply, and when he too had enjoyed the sensation of sun and breeze and illimitable space, he dived to explore the lower reaches of the coral. He came up twenty yards away, swam towards her and trod water. "They're lined up in thousands," he said, thrusting back the wet strips of hair from his forehead. "Must have come in on the squall. A moderate little fortune if we cared to set up in the semi-precious pearl business."

She bent towards him. "Well, why don't we?" she demanded eagerly. "Pearls and copra! Can you imagine anything more romantic?" "It would only last till we'd cleared out all the pipis." "Isn't it worth trying?" "We'll think about it. Rested enough?" They swam back and smoked a cigarette, leaving only four in the box the missionary had left them. The Malays did send down a chicken for dinner that night, and they also put on a ronggeng. But the dance, for want of gold cloth and sunburst crowns, misfired a little as far as the white couple were concerned, though the natives happily celebrated well into the night. It was another moonlit night, and Jenny watched it from her bed through the window till she fell soundly asleep. During the next few days the Malays dived for the pipi oysters and emptied the loaded canoe several times. The pile of shells grew tall under the trees, and two of the women sat opening them under the watchful eye of Kaikai. They found many of the bronze pearls, a few golden ones, a pink one here and there, and several that were brown shot with green. None was large, but the majority were of a uniform size and well shaped. The net result of the mountain of oysters was a small skin bag of pearls which might be worth about two hundred pounds. "I've never seen such things before," commented Jenny, when Philip told her this. "Who buys them?" "They generally stay in the Far East," he said. "At Kinoi we have a petty rajah who insists on riding aloft an elephant on ceremonial occasions. The elephant, of course, is covered by jewelled trappings, and many of the jewels are these pipi pearls, bought in Singapore."

"Will you give the money to the Malays?" "Seeing it was you who discovered the oysters, half the money will be yours." "But I'd rather they had it. Is it any use giving them money?" "None at all. I have Kaikai's permission to use their share either for an outboard or for a second-hand oil press and other plant. Meanwhile, a couple of the boys are going further along the reef looking for more oyster beds. It keeps them busy and expectant and for the morale there's nothing like hope!" Jenny's natural optimism, however, was waning just then. The soreness at the back of her knee had grown into a sharp pain, and the whole joint was enveloped in a stiffness that hurt the more through her efforts to disguise it. With the tips of her fingers she could feel that the blister had become an open place, and each night she hopefully doused a handkerchief in antiseptic ointment and tied it in position. Some mornings it had felt easier. Today, though, the pain was intense, and she had slipped on the longer of the two frocks, to hide the swelling. Philip, she had decided, could do no more than she had done herself, and it would be silly for two of them to worry about it. She was young and healthy; the spot would have to heal some time. Still, it was a little unnerving. Could the pain in her calf be connected with it? And was it normal to feel so hot and sticky all the time, so headachy? She had swum yesterday, but today she hadn't the energy. A paddle in the lagoon might cool her down, though; it was amazing how much heat one could stand when the feet were in cool water. When Philip had gone up the beach to the copra shed, she walked down to the edge of the lagoon.

The water lapped lazily, her feet sank into the sand. She had the queer sensation that only she was still; the world rocked gently, so that one moment she stared at the vertical sea and at the next it fell away and she was on the edge of a precipice. The feeling was not unpleasant. Philip had described his private beach at Kinoi as rather like this. But there were no tamarisks, and the jungle was neatly cut back at each side of a path wide enough for a large car. There was a log bathing house, and he had occasionally given beach parties there. His own house was set half a mile inland, on a hill. You could see it from the beach, he said; it was a cool white dwelling with a cloistered terrace and sloping gardens that were always brilliant with color. Behind it stretched the polo field where he played on Saturdays. Every three months or so he had to entertain the governor and his wife as house guests, and about every other week he gave a dinner party for the white community of Kinoi. She had asked him if he danced, and he had answered with a touch of satire, "Why, yes! I daresay I have as many masculine needs as your Lewis Garve." Lewis, she thought now. He would know what to do with this leg. About a year ago she had strained the same knee while riding on the plantation, and Lewis had put it right in no time. Oh, Lewis . . Jenny put a hand to her throbbing temple. Normally, she could stand any amount of the sun but today it seemed to be getting her down. She must go back to the house and lie down for a while; a couple of aspirins might help. Cautiously, she lifted the left leg. A spear of pain shot between knee and ankle. Turning, she stumbled a few paces and fell to her knees. The impact was like a thousand glass splinters" in the joint, and she stayed there with her face sweating into her forearm. Take it steadily, she adjured herself. There was always someone watching, but they wouldn't suspect a thing if she got up casually

and took only a step or two at a time. She must look back at the sea, as if captivated. Somehow, she did get to her feet once more. To her half-open eyes the beach was a glaring white, as clinically white as Lewis Garve's surgery. So Lewis must be somewhere around, she thought vaguely. The leg was huge and full of agony; a band of iron pressed about her brain. Half-way to the house she sprawled, and passed out. It was one of the women who saw her fall. She had been washing clothes in the gully and was laying them out to dry on the beach when the white mem had begun behaving oddly, and having little else to do she had lingered to watch. Possibly it had occurred to her that even Malays do not lie in the full heat of the sun; quite certainly white people did not fall about unless they were ill. Moving swiftly and fluidly, the woman came to Jenny. She bent over and whispered an enquiring, "Mem? Memtuan?" Reluctant to touch a white person unless told to do so, she called shrilly up the beach, with the result that not only two of the boys, but Philip himself, came loping towards her. Philip pushed them aside, got down and slipped an arm under Jenny. Her face was scarlet and there was a bruised look under her closed eyes. He muttered something, told one of the boys to fetch a tall can of water and boil it, and picked Jenny up in his arms as if she were no heavier than a coir pillow. When Jenny had been placed on the camp bed he called the woman into the room and threw questions at her in Malay. It was when he turned back to the bed that he noticed the swollen knee and the purple line running down the leg under the skin. "God," he breathed to himself, and his face went gray.

They had used many oddments from the first-aid kit, but never yet had need of penicillin. There were two injections, and within seconds he had pressed one of them into Jenny's thigh. It was the prick of the needle that made her lift heavy lids, to look at him. Her lips scarcely moved. "So sorry." "This is hardly a time for politeness," he said almost inaudibly. Then, his voice oddly harsh, "We've nothing more narcotic than aspirin, but I've simply got to drain the poison from that leg. You must trust me to do what's right for you, Jenny." Her eyes were closed again. She whispered, "I trust you, Lewis." For a second longer Philip stayed on his knees. Then he got up abruptly, dragged a tie from his jacket pocket and tied it tightly about four inches above her knee. He had sent a boy for some Kava, the heady wine to which even the Malays never become quite hardened, and now he forced some of the liquid between Jenny's burning lips. After that he sharpened and sterilized a small knife, had the Malay woman hold the leg in position while he set about opening the wound. Later, the Malay told others what she had seen. To think that a man should be able to do that to a small white mem! Not even the slightest unsteadiness of the hand, nor a word spoken. Only once, when the mem had moaned a little, had he hesitated, and then but for a second. "And I tell you," she had ended quietly to Kaikai, "he does not like the small mem as we think he does. I could feel it in the house. When the leg was swathed and she was quiet under the cover, he did not even look at her face, but went down to wash in the sea!" It was dark when Jenny awoke, but the doorway was bare to the pale radiance of the beach and the evening sky. Her mouth had a dry

bitter-sweetness, and her throat felt as rough as if she had not swallowed for days. Her •memory stirred, and she became aware of a bandaged knee that was still painful, but in a different way. The rest of her body was light and floating, and the hand she raised looked thin and lifeless. Everything that had ever happened to her seemed to have receded into some former life. Yet this was the hut she knew, and that smell, surely, came from the antiquated cooking stove. Dimly, she could make out a jug on the stool at her side, and she wondered if there were a cup there, too, so that she could have a drink. She reached out, pushed a spoon with a light cling against the jug, and the next moment Philip came in, filling the doorway before he came over to the bed. "I heard you move," he said softly. "Are you quite awake?" "Yes." Her voice was a dry croak. "I'm a little . . . thirsty." "I'll give you some water. Wish we had some ice." She felt the back of his fingers move impersonally over her brow, gauging her temperature. He poured the water and inserted an arm beneath her to raise her while she drank, but she was glad to slide back again into the pillows. Yes, she thought, there must be two coir pillows, her own and Philip's. She wanted to ask questions, but found it an effort. "Can't we . . . have a light?" "You were sleeping, so I left you in the dark. We've only a couple of candles left, and I was afraid you might need to have one burning all night again," "Again?"

He spoke calmly, in the tones one adopts with a sick child. "Don't you remember last night? None of it?" "Last night?" She paused and asked weakly, "How long have I been in bed?" "Since yesterday afternoon. You collapsed on the beach." "And then . . . what?" "The poison was getting into your system; it made you light-headed. I drained the wound and you've had two shots of penicillin. I hope they'll be enough." "My leg feels better. What was wrong with it?" "It probably started from a blister, like those you got rid of so easily not long after we came here. Your resistance is lower now, and in any case it was in a place where you couldn't see it properly. The blister cracked and turned septic. In this region almost any scratch will go septic if it's not dealt with at once." "I did put iodine ointment on it at nights." "But for some reason you omitted to mention it to me," he said evenly. "Rather than consult me about it, you walked about in agony for several days. It was awfully good to know." Jenny was silent. Philip stood there a minute or two, with his hands in the pockets of his shorts, then he turned away and lit a candle. The flame spat a little, leapt up, showed his face set and expressionless. "I'll give you your toothbrush and some water. Think you can manage without help?"

"Yes, thank you." He brought in a newly-made backrest, set it in position at the head of the camp bed, arranged the two pillows and helped her up. The stool was cleared, a pot of water, her toilet bag and a piece of rough clean towelling placed there. "In about ten minutes I'll bring you some soup," he said. As he went out he dropped the matting into place. Jenny squeezed a minute spote of toothpaste from a flat tube and lethargically brushed her teeth. Strengthless, she washed her face and hands, and dried them, used a comb over the damp surface of her hair. She leaned back, exhausted. Philip brought the soup in one of the large cheap breakfast cups they had found in the store. In the saucer he had placed one of the white metal dessert spoons, and a separate plate held strips of fried breadfruit. Jenny hadn't eaten well for days, and nothing at all since yesterday's lunch, but she had no appetite for tinned soup. But she took the cup from him gratefully, and hoped he wouldn't insist that she eat the breadfruit. In top form one can absorb almost anything in the way of food and drink, and even find oneself liking the outlandish, but Jenny's form at the moment was well below normal. She took the soup slowly, finding it less difficult with each mouthful. When Philip followed up the soup with a tiny boiled egg she even managed that. Because she preferred white coffee, he had opened the last tin of evaporated milk. "We seem to be coming to the end of quite a number of things," she commented. "Yes," he said drily. "It was bound to happen."

She hesitated. "You mustn't blame me too much for not telling you about my leg, Phillip. I kept promising myself it would get well." He finished his black coffee. "Yes, I know." He sounded neither equable nor annoyed. "But it's well not to chase trouble when you're in a situation like ours. You're not out of the wood yet. Those shots of penicillin should be followed up with more. As we haven't any, we'll have to rely on your natural good health to complete the job." "I'll do whatever you say," she said simply. "I'm terribly sorry to have landed you with this." Hazily, she remembered something. Embarrassment showed in her eyes. "You've . . . been with me all the time, haven't you? Did I babble?" "Yes," steadily, "you babbled." "Did it make any sense?" "Very little. You mentioned a few names; the children's and the Bodens'." "Not yours, by any chance?" "No, not mine. You seemed to have gone back to before we met." He stood up and took her coffee cup. "You even passed a joke with a chap you've never mentioned to me. Ben his name was." Jenny felt herself go limp. She turned her face so that he could see only half of it in the candlelight. "What sort of joke?" she asked. "It was unintelligible," he said off-handedly. "I saved the last four cigarettes. Do you want one now?" "No, thanks."

"Maybe you'd better get back to sleep. I'll be right outside if you need anything. Just call. No need to raise your voice—I'll hear you." "Philip . . ." she said desperately. He turned from the doorway. "Yes?" Then, aware of shadows in the hazel eyes: "Stop fretting, Jenny. That leg of yours will be right in no time." "Bother the leg!" she said suddenly. "Why do I have to be concerned only with myself?" "On the whole, it's wiser." "If that had been your philosophy I might not be here!" "You're being melodramatic." Just slightly his voice took an edge. "You feel you know me pretty well now, don't you, Jenny?" "There's part of you I'll never know," she answered quietly.. "True. But you know enough to be quite certain that anything I've done while we've been here has been entirely in character. Perhaps one thing you haven't quite realized is that if you hadn't happened to be young and pretty it wouldn't have made a scrap of difference to my behavior. That even goes for the kiss I gave you one night." "You mean . . . you'd have kissed anyone?" "If you remember, I was making amends for hurting you. It just happened that with you a kiss seemed appropriate." "That's . . . frank, anyway." "What I'm trying to show you is that it's far safer to think only of the future. Some time—and by the law of averages it shouldn't be long

now—a ship will come close enough to this coast to see activity here and be curious about it. When that happens we both have to be ready for it. And now stop thinking and get to sleep. Don't forget that I'll be close if you need anything." For some time after he had gone Jenny didn't move. She felt sick and frightened, and neither sensation had anything to do with her leg. Philip was different, and not only because her sudden collapse had worried him. He had hardened and become alien. He was considerate, wonderfully helpful, almost too assiduous with his nursing; but he had changed. It was as though, Jenny reflected hollowly, he knew that the end of their stay at Tamarisk Bay was in sight and he was preparing her for the casual parting. She wished with all her heart that she had told him about the visit of Ben Wellard. Surely she could have managed it carelessly, have said: "He suggested my going with him and leaving you a note, but I was afraid the missionary might be needing attention here, and I couldn't leave you to it alone." She might have got by with that; she should have taken the chance. She put out the candle and lay back. If Philip really thought a ship might call soon, the seas must be calmer. He hadn't a boat, of course, and an ordinary canoe would not be much use beyond the reef. Still, this time he might go in for a genuine outrigger, sail and all. The natives paddled from island to island in such boats, were sometimes to be seen skimming through deep seas at an incredible speed in them. But that was in other seasons, and they never carried women. If only she didn't feel so helpless. Not physically; that would mend. It was the knowledge that Philip ached furiously for the end of their stay on the beach, that if she had left with Ben Wellard he would now be well up the coast on his way to a plane for Europe. The thought of him gone for good, of his taking some Frenchwoman into

his arms and kissing her, in a way that could only dimly be imagined, sent cool shivers along Jenny's spine. She knew that once they were parted that sort of picture would haunt her for a long time. Philip came in once or twice during the night, but she pretended to be sleeping. When morning broke she was pale and smudged under the eyes, but though he looked at her keenly he made no comment. Kaikai brought large tins of hot water, and the Malay woman came in to help her take a bath and slip into a frock. Sitting at the table with her foot on the stool, she had some coffee and a fried egg. She heard much movement outside, and knew the reason for it when the mattress was taken out and Philip came to carry her into the bright morning. He and Kaikai had rigged up an awning of bananaleaf thatch on poles, as an extension to the roof, and the mattress had been placed under this, on the ground-sheet. The backrest was set in position and Jenny was lowered. "I'm not as bad as that," she protested. "I could have sat on a chair in the doorway." "We're looking for no more trouble," Philip answered. "You keep that leg quite still for a day or two. I'll dress the knee after lunch." "But this," she indicated the thatch overhead. "You shouldn't have done it, Philip." "It would be a wonderful world if everything were as simple as lodging a few banana leaves on poles," he observed cryptically, "but maybe life would lose much of its spice. You're in for a boring couple of days, I'm afraid. Do you want your book?" She shook her head quickly. "I'm not in the mood for Keats."

"I thought you might be happy just to have the book near," he suggested drily. "We're finishing the walls of the copra shed in case the rain comes this way, but I'll try to find something for you to do." Jenny's heart pained with his impersonality. It was no better when he came back an hour later carrying a small tin of the home-made glue used by the Malays in building. He had remembered that she had voiced a keenness to make ornaments from the smallest and prettiest of her shells, and thought she might as well get started. She thanked him politely, obediently sorted the shells into flower patterns and other graceful effects, and used some of the glue. She owed it to him to try whatever he suggested. But for Jenny that day and the next were grim, the more so because an airlessness had settled over the lagoon. There were no bouncing waves beyond the reef, no rustlings in the top of the trees. The Malay women sat down near the water's edge lazily combing their hair and soaking it in coconut oil till it gleamed blue-black. The smallest child, who had such a tenacious grip on life, got his head fixed between the slats of the chicken fence and had to be extricated amid squeals from himself and the family. Because of the heat, which was hardly less at midnight than at midday, the Malays stayed outdoors all night. Jenny tossed on her camp bed, sweated, drank water and sweated again. Over the whole beach it seemed that some contrary influence held sway. There was no change of weather the next day, but Jenny tried out her leg and found it satisfactory. Philip held her as she stood up in the hut, slipped an arm about her as she walked outside and round the house. When she was resting again, she turned the leg to look at the wound. It was a dry purple lump in the bend of the knee, and each side of it was a brief straight line, beautifully healed. "Is that where you cut?" she asked Philip.

He nodded. "Not bad, is it?" "It's amazing!" "I've had practice, though never before on a woman. You needn't have it covered any longer, but we'll watch it." ' "What about a dip?" "I should wait another day." He paused. "As soon as the new boat is ready I shall send a couple of boats as far as they can go along the coast." "Oh." She thought, before asking, "When will it be ready?" "In less than a week. This is a more complicated affair than the last, because the reef ends about thirty miles up and the going will be tricky. I shall give them instructions to carry on till they find white people." "I see." She drew in her lip, said, "You'd rather be going yourself, wouldn't you? Couldn't you do that, and take me with you?" "No, Jenny, I couldn't," he said with finality. "No harm in asking." "I've been thinking," he said, "that I may have been wrong in turning down Meyer's offer to have you at the mission. If you'd gone on with him that night the bad leg would never have developed. He's something of a medical man and has ample supplies. I don't like harping on the green vegetables theme, but it's on the cards that he'd have a supply of vitamin tablets." "We eat plenty of fruit."

"Tropical fruit isn't very valuable as a food." "I'm perfectly fit, and you know it." Her breath caught. "If you're so keen to leave this place, why don't you take me as far as the mission in the new boat, and go on yourself from there?" He smiled, aloofly. "I thought of that, brownie, but decided it wouldn't do. Meyer doesn't bother much about his surroundings, and it's possible the mission isn't a place where a white woman could stay indefinitely. If you'd gone with him that night he might have prevented your leg from becoming infected, but he wouldn't have troubled much with you as an individual. His place is well into the bush, and one could be there for months without seeing another white person. If I took you there now, you'd have to face waiting with him till I might be able to send someone to pick you up." The total lack of emotion in his tone nettled Jenny. "Your leave is slipping away," she pointed out. "Exactly eighteen weeks left," he returned, without looking at her. "I counted it last night." "Then let's go to the mission! Anything rather than have you blame me for all you're missing?" "I don't blame you—ever," he said. "When I make up my mind about something I seldom change it. I'm going to take you to Singapore and deliver you to your friends. I've saved you so long for Lewis Garve that it's only fair to the chap to finish the job." "I'm sure he'd be touched if he could hear you say that!" His mouth went down at one corner. "He may have known you for a year and a half, but I'll bet I could tell him a few things about you that would surprise him." Malice tinged his smile. "Tell you what, Jenny. Insist that you take your honeymoon on one of the

uninhabited islands. disillusionment."

It'll

either

be

great

fun

or

deadly

"You obviously don't think it would be great fun. Why should you wish me disillusionment?" "I don't. I wish you joy." His expression was withdrawn and mocking. "We all get out of life more or less what we deserve. In a way we get what we want. You want security, to be loved without too much—shall we say, fuss?" "What do you mean by . . . fuss?" "Perhaps I should have said heat. In all the ordinary things you're adventurous. You have a warm heart; recklessly warm when it comes to Malay babies who are blue in the face. You give affection easily, which means that you're probably incapable of passion." Jenny was angry, but tremulous. "Compared with your Latin types, I expect I am. People who are adventurous in love are experimentalists. I'm glad I'm not that kind." "Calm down, my child," he said softly. "We've arrived at the point of arguing and getting nowhere, which means that we've seen far too much of each other. Do something peaceful. Shall I get out of the shells?" "No! Throw the lot in the sea." "Tut, tut. I thought those little brooch things were sweet." "You thought nothing of the kind. Go away!" He laughed, and it sounded hard. "I'm your doctor at the moment, remember. And you have great respect for doctors."

Jenny's face was flushed; her heart hurt as if a steel hand were twisting it. "There are times," she said with difficulty, "when I just can't stand you, Philip. This is one of them." His reply was sardonic. "I believe you could hate adventurously, anyway." And from the doorway as he went out: "If you do decide to play with your shells, give me a shout." Jenny put her hands behind her and grasped the back of the chair. It was either that or tip over the table and scatter the coffee cups!

CHAPTER EIGHT AFTER two more days Jenny's leg was as good as new, except that the scar had not yet had time to fade. It wasn't noticeable, though, even when she wore shorts. She knew she was deeply indebted to Philip for his prompt attention to something which could have proved disastrous, but to voice gratitude to him was, once she was about again, as good as asking for sarcasm. She tried to believe that the heavy atmosphere was to blame for his mood; certainly the humid heat was enough to test the best of tempers. But Philip wasn't the kind, to be overcome by heat; it had less effect on him than on the Malays. They, indeed, sat about whenever they could, and they were wont to give a prodigious sigh when the tuan drove them back to work. The copra didn't need turning, they said, To which Philip replied that they must get it as dry as they could while the rain held off. It seemed strange that he should be sure of imminent rain while the sky was so blue and hot. But Kinoi was an island and he had had ample opportunity there of reading the signs. Jenny believed the rain would come, and so did the Malays; but neither felt it could hit the beach with much force. After all, Tamarisk Bay had so far escaped; even the next beach had escaped rain, though the floods had swept over it. At midday, pitiless heat trembled on the still air; in the light of the sultry waning moon it had hardly abated. She went out with Kaikai in one of the small canoes, and the scents of the land were all about her; the tamarisk, the spicy forest mingled their perfume with the dank odor of inland swamps. In the house, at night, there was an angle of moonlight that moved along the floor, and a clear purple triangle of window that was sown with stars. But no breeze, none at all. If a coconut fell with a thud it

was through being overripe; if the sea murmured, it was only that the tide had turned. The heat and one or two other factors slowed down the work on the new boat. Philip had chosen a tree of immense girth because he planned to point the bottom of the boat, but the handling of such a log presented many problems. Sometimes, Jenny was certain he had chosen the biggest tree he could find so that he could fight and master it; convert the tough giant into something that was very much man-made. There came a morning of brassy haze. From half-way across the lagoon it was possible to see the scalloped edge of a cloud mass advancing slowly along the coast and pressing before it a queer band of steel-blue that made the trees as clear-cut as an engraving. The Malays were suddenly uneasy, and Kaikai voiced their anxiety. "My family not belonga sea. We belonga trees." Which meant, presumably, that they were worried about their exposed position on the beach. Actually, the Malay huts were less than a dozen yards from the edge of the forest, whereas the tuan's house was much nearer the sea and sheltered by only a few leaning palms. But to the Malays white people were charmed; they had much modern magic at their fingertips whereas dark peoples had only superstition, which often let them down. Philip belittled their notions and kept them busy. They must heap plenty of sand round the huts and the house, cut new banana leaves and tie them down flat over the roofs, so that the shiny green would help the water to run away; that way, the minimum of rain would enter their dwellings. It amazed Jenny that they did not do these things automatically, through the habit of years. She realized that they never did bother; if the hut collapsed about their ears they

moved in with a more fortunate neighbor and built new quarters as soon as weather allowed. Philip decided to leave standing the awning he had put up for Jenny. "Otherwise," he said, "We shall have to keep the matting over the doorway while it rains. I'll pull the stove under the shelter, just leaving the chimney outside. If we keep a small fire burning, we shan't be without coffee, even if we can't get out to cook food." "You speak as though we were getting ready for a siege!" "You've already experienced tropical rains; you must know that it could last a good many hours. We'll prepare for the worst." He brought in tinned foods, and heaped logs just inside the room. The ground sheet and his mattress were lodged against the wall, and when he went out again to make sure the copra was properly stored, Jenny saw that the back of his shirt was dark with sweat. She was perspiring freely, herself. Heat throbbed in her damp hands, seemed to pulse all over her body when she was still. She took the chair outside and sat under the awning, and the heat from the stove was hardly greater than that of the air. The glare of the beach was queerly shadowed while the sun still shone. The ghost of an omen stole up on her, became more than a ghost. It was as if all her emotions, doubts and fears were slowly collecting themselves for a climax. Later, while they ate lunch, the sun went in. Jenny was so accustomed to brilliance for twelve hours a day that it was like a light going out. She looked up at the strange yellow and grey sky, saw that the trees were suddenly very dark. "It won't be long now," said Philip. "Not scared, are you?" "No, of course not."

Which wasn't quite true, though she didn't altogether blame the impending storm for the churny feeling inside. However, in spite of his preparations, he was unprepared for the fury that unleashed itself upon them late in the afternoon. It didn't start with the usual brief gale. Everything became silent and oppressive, while the sky blackened and took on a coppery sheen. There was a little lightning, a growl of thunder, a few outside raindrops, a lull. Then, with the suddenness of an unseen enemy opening fire after a scouting expedition, it came at them. The heavens opened straight overhead, lightning cracked simultaneously with a crash of thunder and the rain fell in a torrent of additional sound. It was unbelievable. Philip pushed Jenny from under the awning into the house. He stood pear one of the windows, over which the new green thatch extended, and watched the rain pouring off the roof. He had his hands in his pockets, and having done his best for their safety, he now looked completely uncaring. "White people watch the rain," he said. "Malays never do. Up at the huts they're battened right in, chickens and all." "They've never seen the gentle, English sort of rain, have they?" she commented. "At times like this I'd give a lot to see it myself." "I prefer my rain in chunks, with plenty of sunshine in between. I was rather looking forward to missing the rainy season, this year." He turned about, hooked the stool nearer to the open doorway and sat down, looking out. "The lightning's something, isn't it?" "Do you have to stare at it?" He looked at her, drew his mouth in slightly. He saw her wince from a shaft of flame that pierced the very walls of the house, and waited

till the crescendo of thunder was dying before he said quietly, "Do you want me to shut it out?" "No," She unclenched her hands in her lap. "I'll get used to it after a bit." "Of course you will. It's only a storm." But it seemed as if that particular storm was loath to leave Tamarisk Bay. Thunder reverberated over the forest, about every third flash of lightning had a vicious crack to it, and the rain would have been deafening without either. Had Jenny been alone she would have flung herself face downward on the camp bed, plugged her ears and stayed there till the nightmare was past. But with Philip in the room she had to be studiously casual, and bear it. She saw him whittling wood, finishing off the chessmen he had started on a long time ago. For the two colors he had chosen two distinct types of wood, one of them almost black, the other brickred. Considering the whole of the work had been done with an ordinary jack-knife the pieces were excellent, but to Jenny just then they were grotesque. She would have liked to hurl the lot into the stove. How could he sit there unconcernedly carving nicks in castles, smoothing the pawns, levelling king against king and finding one a thousandth of an inch taller than the other? She stood up quickly, and herself went to one of the windows. To coincide with her arrival there both lightning and thunder shook the earth, and there came a prolonged rending crash. She backed, white and trembling. Philip was on his feet, his head pushed through the other window. "That was close," he said. "Struck a tree. Ah, well, it never strikes in the same place twice, so maybe we've had our particular thrill."

What could one do or say against such imperviousness! Instinctively, she knew that his behavior had a purpose, that he wasn't going to let her nerves get the better of her. And because, in spite of him, those same nerves were screaming, she loathed him. "Will you please put the matting over the door?" she said hoarsely. He did it without answering, took her elbow. "Come and sit down. Ever played chess?" Chess, she thought hysterically. Her voice dry, she said, "No, but I've watched it a good many times." "What made you cut a chessboard into the table?" "I don't know. My brother has a table with a chessboard inlaid. He used to play every Wednesday with his father-in- law." She thought queerly, I expect he still does. "I had to scratch the surface of this table to make the alternate spaces light." He was setting up the pieces, black for himself and red for Jenny. "Do you remember the moves?" "I think so. Michael once made me learn them from a book." "Poor Michael," he said. "He must live a very serious life. I wonder how he'd react if he could see you now?" "He'd faint. Is it my move?" He nodded casually. "Do you think he'd believe the truth of the way we live?" "I'm afraid his views are rather narrow. He'll be happier left in ignorance. I hope he's not worrying because I haven't written."

"Dutiful people always worry. I feel as if I know that brother of yours and could even gauge his feelings. I know exactly what he'd do if he found out about your being here alone with me." "Do you?" she said unevenly. Again he waited till thunder receded before saying, "He'd demand that I marry you. And if I refused he'd address a personal letter, to the governor." She was twisting a pawn he had let her gain between her fingers on the table. "He might," she conceded stiffly. "On the other hand I'd probably get my story in first, so that he'd know there would be no question of . , . anything like that." "But you haven't any intention of going home to England, have you?" he asked carelessly. "For you, it's Singapore and then back to the plantation. Does your brother know about Lewis Garve?" "I've mentioned him in my letters." "Naturally. Nothing more?" "There's nothing more that a brother should know." She made a desperate move on the chessboard. "Do you think this storm can possibly last much longer?" "Have patience, child, it's only a couple of hours since it began." He shook his head at the board, said with a smile, "You've laid yourself wide open. Not bad for a first try, though. We'll change colors and start again." She wanted to shout at him that she'd had enough. But he was setting out the pieces, waiting for the couple that she was grasping and digging her nails into. She played again, as badly, couldn't keep her hand from gripping the spare pawns and twisting them on the

table. Then, as he finished making a move, his hand closed quietly over hers and held it still. It was a moment of understanding; his acknowledgment that he knew how she felt. His smile was half bantering. "All the best people say that chess is soothing, so it must be. Haven't you ever seen those old boys in hotel lounges, crouched over a board and oblivious of everything?" She managed a pale smile. "But I'm not an old boy." "That was an extreme example. Take your brother. . . ." "I can't think about Michael, not seriously. Sometimes," she said appealingly, "it seems that nothing exists beyond Tamarisk Bay. I feel as though I'm here for ever." "It might solve a lot of problems if we were," he said, his smile enigmatic. "At least, we'd only have to bother about each other." "But we'd have the same past as we have now," she replied in low tones. "It's one's personal history that makes one different from others." "If a man and woman found themselves planted somewhere inaccessible for the rest of their lives," he observed sardonically, "the past wouldn't matter very much. Human nature being what it is, they'd probably be darned glad they weren't two men or two women!" "You're impossible." "It's a fairly impossible situation, and not ours, thank the stars. This isn't going to last much longer for us. I'm sure of it." She drew her hand from the tingling warmth of his. "How can you be sure of it?"

"Call it a hunch—but it's a hunch based on fact. A couple of days ago I saw a ship. Yes, I did," as she stared. "I've seen them before on the horizon, but this was nearer, though too far away for them to see a signal. The Malays had fires going, anyway, but it may have been a ship that doesn't normally touch this coast. However, it does show that the seas are smoother. If the pilot of that plane ever did put out a message about us, someone should happen along soon. Meanwhile, just in case the hunch lets me down, I'm carrying on with the boat. You may get that cup of tea you've been yearning for rather sooner than you expect." She looked at him quickly, uneasily, and away again. "Getting dark isn't it? It must be nearly supper time." "I'll light a couple of those Malay candles. What did Kaikai say they were made of?" "I couldn't make out, but they look like rushes in solid fat." "Then they'll splutter like the dickens." He placed two of the white blocks on the table. "Here goes." The candles did splutter and flicker but they gave a fair light and made Jenny feel less conscious of the incessant lightning. The thunder was still heavy but further away; the rain remained a relentless deluge. Philip threw his coat about his shoulders and went out to make the coffee. Jenny set the table, opened a tin of sweet corn to accompany the cold pickled fish she had bought from the Malays. The sight of the two dishes on the table made her feel discouraged and sick, and it was only because Philip was watching that she forced herself to eat. And she was so terribly tired of black coffee. If only he'd grumble she wouldn't mind so much. But he ate and talked, moving that well-cut mouth of his with its firm rows of white teeth. And he

went on watching with those sea-green eyes till she had cleared her small portion from the plate. Then he gave her a sharp grin. "Good girl. Eat as well as you can for my sake. You're getting too thin." "Have you an antipathy for thin girls?" His expression lost the sharpness, became tantalizing. "Are you asking how much I care for you?"' "No. I already know the answer to that one. I was merely trying to keep you from getting bored. It's part of the art of conversation." He finished his coffee. "I suppose it's lucky that we don't often bore each other. We've no cigarettes, no drink, no books, no radio, not even a homely harmonica. Did I say no drink? We do have some kava!" "No thanks!" He had found the tall jug of wine and was pouring a little into two clean cups. "Come on, it's just what you need. It'll steady your nerves and give you a good sleep." "But it isn't bed-time." "It doesn't matter. If you go sleepy you can lie down. You haven't enough there to intoxicate an ant!" To Jenny, kava wasn't a pleasant drink, but she had been grateful for it the day Philip had had to cut her leg. She sipped, wrinkled her nose at the queer, musty-tasting aftermath, and felt the glow beginning high in her chest.

She heard the rain, the ponderous thunder, and she saw Philip's mocking glance as he stood beside the window. He didn't say anything, but there was an indefinable something about him that touched at her nerves like hot needles. What was he thinking? She had come to know that mockery in him invariably hid something; It had not the teasing quality she had expected in those early days. Quite often he turned to mocking at her when he was really angry, but tonight he wasn't angry; he was puzzling. He had always gone to lengths to ensure that their situation did not make her uneasy, yet suddenly his demeanor seemed to stress their aloneness; stress it and at the same time taunt her about it. Yes, they were terribly alone, cut off from everyone, even the Malays, by the ceaseless sheets of rain, the nagging thunder and lightning. He ... he couldn't sleep outdoors tonight. And there he stood, not saying a word, but gradually getting through the small drink and thinking heaven knew what, while the halfclosed eyes and smiling mouth told her nothing at all. And sitting there at the table, Jenny had a moment of frightening clarity, an endless moment of exquisite pain in the knowledge of loving him more than she had ever imagined it possible to love another human being. There was a clamoring in her veins, her throat roughened. Her fingers tightened round the cup. "I'm going to take a look round outside," he said. "Our best insurance for a dry hut is the slope of sand." "Let me go, too," she begged. "No, your hair would take more drying than mine. Stay under the thatch."

He kicked off his shoes, slipped on the overcoat and pulled aside the matting at the door. Then he was gone, and Jenny leant against the log of the doorway, feeling so weak that she could have dropped. Lightning played over the beach, rain beat heavily and she could feel its spray on her feet and legs, even on her face. Its noise was so loud that even the sound of the waves was deadened. She looked out and up towards where she knew the Malay huts to be. There was nothing but the torrent, grey here near the door and black where the light did not reach. Behind the beach the forest was being drenched, and further back still black mountains were smouldering against the night. Jenny shivered, threw a few logs into the stove fire and went back into the house. For the first time since the storm had broken she looked around the walls, and saw that lizards which would normally have slept outside had crawled through the apertures and hung themselves in the dry for the night. There were a few red ants, a large palm spider, but seemingly no snakes. It was much cooler now, and with the worst of the storm past she could remember those other rains at Boekarta. She thought of clean, translucent mornings when the yellow ginger bush below her window had sparkled like a fountain touched by Midas, and of the teeming afternoons and Mary Boden pacing and wondering whether she oughtn't to get the children away. Jenny looked down at her creased shorts and thin white cotton shirt. Was this the poised young woman who had taken on that journey down the river with Peter and Diane? This small, long-legged creature with hair growing in shaggy yellow curls, whose face had known no make-up since the night she had been scoffed at for using powder and a rub of lipstick?

Sudden tears stung her eyelids. What chance had she? Since leaving the plantation she hadn't once looked decent. She had been a child in a rough-dry cotton frock, an even younger child in boy's pants and shirt. Her hair, cut in a style that had to be kept short to look its best, had grown first into a ducktail and then into a mop. To be seen as a woman one must possess mystery. Mystery! Jenny knew herself to be as mysterious as apple pie and custard. Philip came in, sloughing his coat, and automatically she held out to him one of the pieces of rough towelling from the store bale. He used it vigorously for a couple of minutes, cast it aside and combed the thick damp hair as flat as it would go. "Was everything all right?" she asked. "There's a moat where the rain runs off the roof— pretty deep at the back of the house—but the walls aren't saturated. The extended thatch takes care of that. We seem to be standing fairly solid; we'll certainly be all right till daylight." "It ... it must be getting late." He pushed back his cuff. "Just after ten. We've had six hours of it. Are you tired?" She didn't answer at once. Then: "Not particularly. Are you?" "No, but a rest won't hurt us. We can't sit round the table all night." He bent to spread the ground-sheet near the wall farthest from her bed. "Just lie down as you are and pull the rug over you. I'll have my mattress here. If you can't go to sleep and get fed up with lying down, we'll both get up and I'll make some coffee." A little shakily, she said, "I'm sure I'll never sleep through the rain."

"You may. After a time the steady beat becomes narcotic. Set?" He came over and adjusted the rug, nipped out one of the candles with finger and thumb. "Would you like me to leave the other?" "Yes. No." "Perhaps we'd better have it out." They were in darkness, with the rains washing down just beyond the glassless windows. She heard him move across to the mattress and lower himself, knew that he was lying flat on his back with his hands under his head. He hadn't said good night, and she wondered palpitatingly whether in the darkness he might say something that could not easily be said in daylight. But no. If Philip had something of importance to communicate he would get. it over, whatever the conditions. He hadn't said good night because he wasn't sure they were settled. She felt restless and unhappy, but daren't turn on the noisy coir mattress; the dry crackle indoors would be audible even above the din of the rain. Cool damp air flowed in through the window, but under the rug she was hot; her eyes and limbs were heavy with nervous fatigue. Sleep seemed impossible. She dragged her mind away from Philip, thought of the lizards hanging upon the wall in the darkness. One good thing about lizards was their habit of always clinging to some solid surface, preferably a cold one. She had never heard of a lizard landing on a human being, and in any case, being a cold-blooded creature, it would soon slide off again. It wasn't pleasant to contemplate, but one had to think of something as far as possible removed from Philip. The thatch cracked slightly under the weight of the rain, and she suddenly remembered the spider fastened to the underside of the dried banana leaves. They were big things, these Sumatran palm

spiders, their bodies no larger than a half-penny but their legs tremendously long and raggedly jointed. As far as she knew they were harmless, but dangling on a thick cord of web they were evil brown balls with bright eyes. They moved very fast. Jenny stiffened with fright. She wished she had pointed the thing out to Philip so that he could have got rid of it. It had been nearer his side of the room than hers, but it might decide to travel, and let itself down. A nerve quivered in her cheek. She could feel the thing brushing her forehead, tangling itself in her hair. She closed her eyes tightly, told herself she was an idiot with far too much imagination. Yet straightway a tale related by Mary Boden came into her mind. While the bungalow at the plantation was being built the Bodens had slept in a temporary shelter of grass and thatch, like this one. Because she was new to the climate and found it difficult to sleep, Mary had occasionally swallowed a sleeping pill before bed, and on one of those nights she had dreamed she was undergoing complicated hair treatment, and awakened to hear a scampering across her pillow. The whole area, it had turned out, was ratinfested. Mary had often shuddered at the thought of the horrible things exploring her face during a drugged sleep. Jenny sweated, almost started up. There was something running down the wall; she was certain of it. She didn't hear it so much as feel it, but it was there. Her brain reeled with images of gargantuan spiders and rats, her skin quivered uncontrollably while she fought down the panic. But she couldn't bear it! They must have a light,. anything to scare away . . Something wet and furry ran along the bed, brushing her bare arm. She let out a piercing scream and leapt to the floor, and in the next second Philip was up too, rattling matches. "Lord, what is it?" he demanded. "Are you hurt?"

Jenny couldn't speak. She was drawn up, holding her face and trembling from top to toe. The match flared, illumined the bed, and Philip gave a brief shout of laughter. "It's a poor little wah-wah come in out of the rain. Did it touch you?" Jenny's hand slipped to her working throat. She looked at the pathetic baby monkey, moistened her lips. "Excruciatingly funny," she said in a whisper. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a little wah-wah," he said. "I've seen you handle the' things." He made a dive at it, but the monkey had had its fill of civilization. It took a flying jump at the wall, raced up and out of the window. Philip went round the bed rolled down the matting and fastened it over the hole. In the guttering candlelight he still had a smile, but as he looked at her standing, pale and rigid, on the other side of the bed, the smile faded. "Don't be a silly little brownie," he said quietly. "Whatever happens you must keep your nerve." She sat down suddenly and with a weary movement threw herself full length on the rumpled rug, her face half turned into the pillow. "All right, it was too comical for words," she said unsteadily. "I thought it was a rat, and I happen to dislike rats. Laugh yourself silly, if you want to." "I don't want to laugh at your fears, Jenny." He sat down on the side of the bed, without touching her. "You've been working yourself up all day, and it isn't like you. You're not afraid of storms—not really—and even a rat wouldn't normally make you lose your sense

of humor. I think I partly know how you feel . . . but I'm just not in a position to encourage it. Jenny . . ." But something had snapped within Jenny. She had pushed her face into her arm and was weeping unrestrainedly. The slim shoulders shook and pressed down into the pillow and the other hand was clenched beside the yellowish head into a small white fist. "Oh, my heaven," he said under his breath, and lifted her up into his arms. She wept against him, terribly, as if her heart were in pieces. She heard him tell her that he wouldn't have her give in, that everything would come out as she wanted it if she'd only have a little more patience. His hand soothing her shoulder was gentle, but gradually his voice changed, became thickish and hard. "This is a hell of a business. You've got to stop it, Jenny! What d'you think I'm made of?" She quietened, realized with a horrible shock that in her need for comfort she had flung her arms about his neck, that her mouth was close to his throat. Then she felt that his touch was no longer gentle; he gripped and bruised, his breath was hot across her forehead. And in the next moment he wasn't holding her at all, but had pulled her hands from behind his neck and thrust her away. He stood up and walked round the table, shifted the candle so that only half of the room was illumined. "See what I mean?" he said in clipped tones, and went back to his mattress. Jenny hardly heard. She lay still and wished for death.

Whatever has gone before, one can never avoid the dawn. Quite often the brilliant sun will disperse half one's personal shadows and make the other half tolerable, but even a grey morning is a new beginning, the promise of a day one might make better use of. It was a drab morning at Tamarisk Bay. The rain had stopped just before daybreak and the sky hung like a plate of lead above the trees and the lagoon. A cool mist veiled the trees; the beach beaten flat and hard and with myriads of runnels down to the sea, was strewn with twigs and crushed blossoms, a few coconuts and fruits washed out of the jungle. The water in the moat around the house was sinking, its surface thick with dead insects, and the slope of sand against the walls glistened whitely, like salt. Jenny had got up to find herself alone in the hut. The primitive candle had burnt right out, the palm spider had gone, and the other mattress leant against the wall with the ground-sheet folded beside it. She got into her swim suit and took a dip, came back to find the house still unoccupied but a cup of coffee on the table. She put on a frock and combed her salt, wet hair, stripped her bed and bared the window. She looked into her handbag mirror and saw a small sallowish face, eyes that were large and lustreless, a mouth that looked as if it would never smile again. She dropped the mirror back into place, and put the cloth on the table for breakfast. They never did have breakfast indoors, but today there was no avoiding it. She wasn't hungry, though; perhaps she could find something to do while he ate. Fish again? Or should she go up to the copra shed and cut some slices off the salted wild pig that hung there? The prospect of eating either was nauseating. She took logs to the stove, found it hot enough, with a pan of water boiling on the top.

Philip came out of the mist, said casually, "I've been up to the native huts and cadged four eggs and some cassava bread. Think you could manage poached eggs on toast?" Her voice cool with effort, she answered, "I'll try. Can you eat three?" "I'd rather we had two each. They tell me more of the hens are doing their duty." She had known that this morning he would be impersonal, but it hurt. He might have given her a grin, made some mocking remark about the night and put it where it belonged. But it seemed that to Philip such bouts of quenched emotion didn't belong anywhere. They were part of this business of being alone with a woman day and night, and had to be accepted and forgotten. Perhaps not quite forgotten, though. He talked less and omitted those cryptic remarks they both enjoyed. She sensed an urgency in him that was much more acute than the attacks of impatience he had before, and whatever of pleasantness there might be in his expression, it didn't reach his eyes. He had plenty to do. The moat had to be filled in, the beach cleared of storm drift. One of the Malay huts was in bad shape and needed a new roof, their flimsy fencing had been flattened, their mats swamped. And there was always the new boat to claim his attention: the cross-beam and outrigger pole, the correct weight of sail, and that tricky point to the boat-bottom which would be an additional safeguard against capsizing. By noon the sun got through and roofs and trees began to steam. The atmosphere was not unpleasant after the cool day of rain. Midafternoon someone discovered that the store was no more. Having stood in water for many weeks the walls were so weakened that the

rain-laden roof had proved too heavy. The whole building had collapsed inwards, burying whatever might be left of tinned foods, materials and hardware in a vast lake. On the whole, it was not much of a disaster; their circumstances would have to be reduced indeed for them to need the rusty unlabelled tins, the shrunken, faded bolts of cheap cotton. The surface sand dried quickly and became its usual trodden dusty white. The big leaves of the washed trees and palms gleamed like silk, and the sky regained its warm tropic blue. The reef was strung out like chips of amethyst resting on a mild cobalt sea, and the air was so clear that from the rocks one could pick out the detail of the beach. The night was wondrously full of stars, the atmosphere soft and smooth as milk. They ate later than usual, outdoors, hardly talking at all. Philip took out his mattress and Jenny went to bed. The day had been lived through, ended with cool good nights. The following day was much the same, except that Jenny saw even less of Philip. He sent Kaikai over to fetch his lunch to where he was working on the boat, and turned up himself at something after four. He bathed and changed, sat down outside the house to sketch on an old envelope the type of steering rudder he considered essential to his boat. Jenny sat on the chair just inside the doorway, and tried not to look at the back of his bent head. The mahogany hair had a coppery sheen, his jaw was dark, the shoulders broad and careless. After a while she had to get up and fetch the book of poems. But she couldn't bear to think, either. She felt rather than saw him get up and stroll away, seawards, willed herself to read every word of two complete pages of Hyperion

before looking up again. And when she did look up there came a shout. "Jenny! Jenny, come out!" She jumped up quickly, dropped the book. In the blinding westering sunshine she stood still, grasping the post of the awning. She stared at the sea, saw the black steamer beyond the reef, the rowing boat arrowing swiftly across the lagoon, and Philip with his arm raised and pointing. "Come on down. There's our bus home!" She moved mechanically, in a nightmare, knowing that when she reached Philip's side the rowing boat would grate over the beach, and Ben Wellard would step out.

CHAPTER NINE YES, it was Ben, but he was slick now, in a tropical uniform donned for the express purpose of landing at Tamarisk Bay and greeting the government officer of Kinoi. His black curls escaped from a white cap, his hand was extended boyishly. "Hallo, sir. Have I surprised you?" Philip was smiling the slightly arrogant smile he probably reserved for his own junior assistants. "It's a very pleasant surprise—one we've been waiting for a long time. I'm Philip Brooke." "I know that, of course." Ben smiled happily at Jenny, but again spoke to Philip. "They've been trying to trace you in Singapore. The pilot of your plane made a report but only to the chief of the air service. By a great piece of luck I got in touch with a man named Channing. You know him?" "Yes, I know Channing. I half promised to spend a day or two with him between planes. Your boat is safe enough there. Let's go up to the house." Ben was unconcernedly glad to comply. He gazed with much admiration at Jenny, and totally unaware of any tension except that naturally caused by his sudden arrival, walked between the two of them as far as the house. Philip put out the chair and stool, waved the young man to one or the other. Jenny turned to the stove, and under cover of looking into the fire she pressed a hand to her burning temple. How to handle this? How to warn Ben that he must forget he had ever before seen Tamarisk Bay! "Cigarette?" said Ben behind her.

"Thanks." Her fingers shook, so did the cigarette as Philip held the match her way. He probably concluded that the ship's arrival had been too much for her. Well, it had! In strained tones she said, "Would you like some coffee, Mr. Wellard?" Then for an agonizing second she thought he was going to remark that she had called him Ben before, he looked so rueful. But he only said, "That would be nice. I've ordered dinner aboard for eight o'clock, after we're on our way." On our way, thought Jenny faintly. Philip said decisively, "I can't leave tonight. The Malays here have come to depend on me, and I need to have a long talk with all of them. I'm going to send them some machinery from Singapore, and there's a boat that they have to know how to finish—and other things. Discussions may take half, the night. We'll get away at dawn." Ben had a worried frown. "The storm held me up a little; I've got to get back to load some stuff for Celebes." "I'll take the responsibility," stated Philip with finality. To this, it seemed, Ben hadn't quite the courage to reply. In Philip he recognized the type of masterful Englishman that he had always taken pains to avoid. They reminded him of his mixed parentage, of the easy life he had chosen. He took his coffee cup from Jenny, tasted it and grimaced, as he had before. She steeled herself for the comment that did not come. As her breathing evened out, she had a moment of wild hope. If Philip could be persuaded to leave them for only two or three minutes, she could manage this situation. Ben must be told some reason for her secrecy, but that didn't matter, so long as she could

impress him with the importance bf keeping silent about his previous visit. He was young and easy to manage because he liked her; she was sure he'd be anxious to please her. But hope died immature. Ben had mentioned a man named Channing, whom it seemed Philip knew well. He would have been frank with the man, and there must be others, too, who knew that he had called at Tamarisk Bay. She dropped the scarcely-smoked cigarette and trod it into the sand. "Your name is Wellard?" Philip was asking. "Ben Wellard, of Medan Shipping." "Ben?" Philip's eyes flickered a look at Jenny. He shifted, leaned back on the log that supported the thatch. Ben misunderstood. "You might have heard the surname before, but my father's name is John. He lives in England now.',' This was where Jenny should have spoken. Quietly, humorously, she should have come out with some glib set of details which would have told Philip everything and left Ben in ignorance. But all she could think of was that one night she had been light-headed and used this young man's name, and Philip had remembered. She was waiting for Philip to ask, "Have you and Jenny met before?" But he didn't. What he did say was, "I'd like to hear more about your coming here today—who sent you, and so on." Ben's smile was slightly embarrassed. "I'm afraid I rubber-necked— and that was how I met your friend, Mr. Channing. I asked a few questions in the bar at the English Club, and some other chap who knew you both called him over. By the way, Mr. Channing gave me a letter that's been waiting for you there for several weeks. He said it

can't very well be urgent now, but you might as well have it as soon as possible." The letter was taken from an inside pocket. Jenny saw it plainly. It had come by airmail from France, and was addressed in a typically continental feminine hand. Philip took it with a word of thanks, turned it about, and buttoned it into the top pocket of his shirt. The letter and his action gave full twist to the knife that was ever close to Jenny's heart. Perhaps, knowing no more than the photograph had revealed, she had foolishly persuaded herself that the woman meant just that to him—a flat picture on a postcard. But this was a letter, something live and full of meaning, and it could have been written at the most only two months ago. It had been sent to await him at Singapore, like a welcome. Jenny bit hard on her lip, tasted blood. She got back into the shade, leant against the wall of the house and put supporting hands behind her. Ingenuously, Ben said, "I suppose you feel a bit cool because I didn't wait to see you last time. You see, Mr. Brooke, I was in a rather awkward position. I expect Miss . . . er . . . Jenny explained." Philip's expression was unrevealing. He, too, dropped his cigarette before it was half-smoked. "You came the day I went up the river to the missionary, didn't you?" he said evenly. "No, I didn't blame you for not staying." "I'm glad of that. I did ask Jenny to go with me, of course." "It's a pity she didn't," said Philip steadily. "She didn't say you might be back."

"I had no notion that I would—honestly!" Ben seemed to dislike sitting while the others stood; he got to his feet and moved to the other thatch support. He added eagerly, "I did tell her that I seemed to know your name. When I got back to the ship I remembered that I'd had to call at Kinoi once, and had to wait for a signature to some papers—your signature. I dealt with a clerk at the customs." He paused. "Well, when I reached Medan they had a cargo for Singapore waiting for me. I did a little explaining to my chief and he said there'd be no objection to my returning here to pick you up after the cargo was delivered, so long as I got payment for it." "You'll get payment," said Philip abruptly. "I didn't mean that," the young man exclaimed hastily. He looked at Jenny, pleading with her to understand, then went on to Philip, "As a matter of fact this Mr. Channing arranged for me to be chartered by the government to pick you up. Apparently the British will spend almost any amount on rescuing their own people." There was a brief silence. Then Philip asked, "What was it, exactly, that brought you to Tamarisk Bay last time?" "Only what I told Jenny. I needed some supplies from the trader— didn't know that he'd been. washed out. I looked through binoculars at the beach and saw people moving, so I came ashore." He smiled. "You could have blown me down when I saw Jenny standing there at the edge of the water." "Yes, I expect so," was the flat reply. "But you hadn't much time here, I believe." "I did wait as long as I could," he protested. "We had lunch ..." "On your ship?"

He gave another embarrassed laugh. "No, I went back for a dish of curry and we had it right here. I brought some tea, and Jenny wouldn't speak while she drank the first cup for fear of spoiling the ecstasy." He stopped rather suddenly, took a last pull at his cigarette. Imperceptibly, Philip had straightened away from the post. His hands were deep in the pockets of his shorts, his chin jutted and his mouth was an inflexible line. The green-blue eyes were unreadable. He nodded up the beach. "They'll be wondering what it's all about. I'll go up and tell them to get ready for a pow-wow." And he strode away towards the huts. For several minutes after he had gone neither of the two left standing there said a word. Jenny was trying to pull her shattered thoughts together, and poor Ben was far too unsure of himself to speak first. He coughed once and looked down at the immaculate white deck shoes he wore to complete the tropical outfit. He was at ease neither in the situation nor in the formal dress.:. "I didn't imagine I'd ever see you again," she said at last in thin tones. "I got to thinking we'd never be picked up." "It was such an unusual experience for me," he answered, "finding you here. I couldn't get it out of my mind, and before I'd reached Medan I'd decided to come back as soon as I could. But the stuff was ready for Singapore, and I had to go straight there, but I did get permission to come here afterwards. Then, as I told Mr. Brooke, I made a few inquiries." He rubbed his chin. "As a matter of fact, I thought . . . hoped . . . you'd both greet me rather differently." "I'm awfully glad to see you," she said a little woodenly, "and you can be sure that Mr. Brooke is extremely happy to know he can get away at last."

"Is he usually like that?" he queried hesitantly. "You know, cool and superior?" "'It's part of his character, I suppose," she replied wearily. "Then you must have had the deuce of a time!" She contrived a smile. "Up and down," she said. He sounded puzzled. "Didn't you tell him much about my visit here?" Jenny shook her head. "He'd missed the chance of leaving and there was no point in stressing it." Another silence. Then: "It must have been a rum situation," Ben said, "but if any man could carry it off, he could. I bet there's hardly another man in the world who could live isolated with a girl and keep a wall between them." Sickeningly, Jenny recalled a white-hot moment in the darkness, fingers closed cruelly on heir shoulder and waist, the dry cynicism of that remark: "See what I mean?" She made an effort to leave the subject. "You're somewhat unusual yourself, Ben. You're nothing like the traditional South Seas skipper." He considered this seriously. "No, I'm not, but possibly it's because I'm younger than the rest. Sometimes I feel it's a rotten life, and at others it doesn't seem so bad. Perhaps I let other people affect me too much." "In what way?"

"Well," he was happier now, mentally more comfortable; "every few days I spend a night or two in a different port. Some of them are shady, some are commercialized for tourists, and some are not unlike this beach of yours, except that there's always a trading station and more people. I try hard not to get so bored that I have to drink and gamble, so I run a couple of hobbies. I collect any thing old and oriental that's cheap and I go in for photography." "But that's fine," she said, wishing she could infuse her tones with enthusiasm. "I envy you." "I'm afraid you don't mean that." He moved and looked down towards the sea. "After I left you last time I think I went a trifle crazy. You seemed so jolly and . . . and ordinary—not too far out of reach of someone like me. You're not like that today." "I can't help it, Ben." "Of course you can't. I went a little foolish, that's all. That day I saw only one side of you, and for me that would have been enough, because I'm not a complicated sort of ordinary chap. But I realize now that I couldn't possibly be enough for you. I'm just a small-time skipper in the sultry seas." "You're quite poetic sometimes," she said more gently. He smiled, still staring at the lagoon. The dark curls lifted slightly in the breeze, but his expression had the young-old intentness she had noticed before; possibly it had something to do with his being a seafaring man. "By the way," he said, "I inquired at the airport about those two children you sent on. They arrived safely and were handed over to their aunt." "That's wonderful news! Thank you so much, Ben."

"I may have a couple of free days in Singapore while the ship is being loaded," he observed. "Will you spend an evening with me?" To Jenny, Singapore was still a world away. "That would be lovely," she said. She was conscious of the warm day dying. The sun had sunk into its welter of flames, leaving a golden haze above the trees. Hyacinthine dusk drew in from the east and the lazy rollers of evening broke sweetly over the beach. There came a sudden heavy breath of perfume from the jungle, the singularly tropic scent of spice and exotic blossoms. In that moment it seemed to Jenny that she had no more courage left. This was the end, and she had to face it defeated. Willing herself to move, she went into the house and looked about her, but even though they were leaving there was oddly little to do. She folded the rug and placed the pile of clean clothing upon it, slipped the volume of Keats into the pocket of her coat as it hung against the wall, and walked over to the window. She had been standing there some minutes when Philip came back. She heard him say to Ben: "These natives like ceremony, so I've arranged a meeting for about nine o'clock, after their meal is over. They'll make a big thing of it, but I'll cut it as short as I can." "I expect they'll want to put a dance, over for you," said Ben. "No," curtly. "I've told them I won't have it. And no gifts, either. How long does the trip to Singapore take in your vessel?" "About twenty hours." "Have you any trade goods aboard?"

"Nothing much. I'm re-loading. I did think of bringing . . . . a frock for Jenny, but like all seamen I'm superstitious, and didn't want to take too much for granted." This drew no comment. Philip said, "I'll pay you for whatever trade goods you have. One of the boys will come out to your ship for them right away, so that I can hand them over when we have our meeting. I suggest you go back and wait for us." "Won't you even come to the ship for dinner?" "No. I think not. The head man here will canoe us out as soon as we're ready." "Then there's a chance well get away before dawn?" "Frankly, Wellard," said Philip distinctly, "I can't reach Singapore too soon. We'll be with you as soon as I can possibly manage it." In the pause that followed Jenny knew that Ben was putting on the peaked cap, adjusting it at the back. He seemed to be taking an unconscionable time about it. He spoke. "I brought these for Jenny. It's a couple of packs of very old Chinese playing cards. Tell her that they're the same series as the others I gave her." "I wasn't aware," said Philip deliberately, "that Jenny collected playing cards." "Oh, she doesn't," replied Ben ingenuously, "but she took a fancy to the other pack, and when I saw these in a junk shop I thought she might like them. Well, if you're sure there's nothing I can do. . ." Jenny heard movements, steeled herself. She turned her back to the window, clenched her hands at her sides and waited. Waited till the

coldness of her heart told her there was no one outside the house, that Philip had dismissed Ben Wellard and gone off about some business of his own. Was he going to ignore the whole business, act as if nothing mattered now they were as good as on their way to Singapore? Yes, that was the natural reaction of a man who had been released from an awkward position. The very fact of Singapore being less than a day away had subtly altered the whole atmosphere. The aloneness was ended, tomorrow would have other horizons, other interests. Already, he had stepped out of Tamarisk Bay and into the world in which Delice was at the other end of a plane journey, and his curtailed leave existed to be enjoyed to the hilt. He hadn't liked learning from Ben about his previous visit, but with his own departure imminent everything else became insignificant. He would, of course, do the correct thing by the natives. He had started them on a business venture and he would see they had everything he had promised. That was his nature; just as it had been his nature to take care of the young governess who had been stranded with him. By now, he had read the letter from the Frenchwoman, and she was with him in his thoughts, beautiful and alluring in her alien fashion, offering him the sort of temperament that a man of action would delight in. It was fatally easy to imagine him in love with—even married to—the woman who signed herself "Toujours a toi". Always yours. It was suddenly dark and cool. Jenny willed her stiff fingers to light a candle; no object now in saving things. She put th© little bag of pipi pearls into the pocket of Philip's coat, took her collection of shells outside and emptied them at the foot of a palm. Up at the huts a huge fire was burning and a wild pig was roasting on a spit above the flames. Women crouched in nearby, turning the animal, and the talk up there was excited. They were preparing for

an event, would probably send down some of the roast pork. Jenny shuddered. She couldn't bear to go back into the house, and turned involuntarily towards the sea. The waves lapped whitely over her feet, and she walked along in them till she reached the forest. Here, it was black and impenetrable, and a few feet from the sea began the arc of tamarisks which must have been planted there by someone who had hoped to make this bay quite different from any other on the Sumatran coast. Perhaps whoever it was had chosen tamarisks because the feathery spikes of flowers lasted so long. They had been in full bloom six weeks ago, and even now they had a lilac sheen by daylight. Jenny stood there a long time before she walked back along the beach. She was drained and tired, unable to feel very much. She looked dispassionately at the lights of the ship beyond the reef, and went back into the house. But inside the door she paused. Philip was there, looking over a box of trinkets, tobacco and sweetmeats in tins' that the canoe boy had brought from the ship. On the table lay the two tiny packs of Chinese playing cards. He indicated them. "Wellard left those for you." And that was all. He sorted the box of trade goods, took out a tobacco pouch and a pipe of the lidded sort that he would probably give personally to Kaikai, and shoved the box aside. He took papers from the pocket of the jacket which hung on the back of the chair, separated his passport and innoculation forms, wrote something and put everything away again. And all the time Jenny stood near the table, doing nothing at all. At last the silence became intolerable.

"Well,- it's over," she said. "I told you I had a hunch a ship would come this way," he commented without expression. "Pity I didn't have it the first time." "I suppose you blame me for not telling you that . . . that Ben had been here." "You probably had your reasons." He put the pile of clothing on the table and opened the rug on his camp bed. "Anything you want from that heap before I wrap it?" "No. Philip . . ." She steadied her lips. "Ben didn't guess that I hadn't told you." "That was hardly due to your efforts, was it?" he said coolly, as he neatly placed shorts and shirts in the centre of the rug. "If you hadn't drooled his name while you were sick, I might have looked a complete fool!" "Don't speak to me like that! If I said his name it was because I was worried at not having told you about him." As if she had not broken in, he added, "And I don't care to find myself in that position with a rough-haired seaman. What beats me," he straightened and his voice was steel, "is how you could possibly hide it. How long did he stay?" "Till evening, but ..." "And you had a hell of a time with him! No wonder you were so happy the next day. He talked about ecstasy. Was it only tea you drank?"

She stared at him, white-faced. "What in the world are you getting at? He was a stranger, willing to help us if only you'd been here. I was naturally glad he came. . . ." "I'll bet you were!" He flung the leather case of shaving kit on top of the clothes. "How long do you think it took me to notice that he's infatuated with you? A man doesn't get that way just on a cup of tea. He broke up the boredom for you, gave you something to dream on for a while!" "That's a beastly thing to say. Ask Kaikai what happened. He was around all the time." "I can see myself discussing it with a Malay!" Roughly, he bundled her thin white underwear alongside his own things. His glance at her was metallic. "Did you bribe Kaikai to say nothing?" Her voice shook. "What sort of person do you think I am? After . . . after Ben had gone I thought it all out. I was sure Kaikai wouldn't say anything to you about the ship calling, because he'd take it that . . . well, that I'd tell you myself. He wouldn't presume to interfere in ... in white people's affairs. I was terribly uncertain. I thought you'd hate having missed the ship. I still hadn't made up my mind about it when we had all the excitement of the sick child. I realized after that that to Kaikai the incident with the child would be far more important than the coming of a ship—that he'd forget everything else. So I . . . decided to say nothing about it." "And you never would have told me!" She shook her head despairingly. "You make it appear that I behaved monstrously. I did what I thought was best." "Could it possibly be right to leave me in ignorance?"

"It didn't seem to matter. How could I know he'd come back? His was the first ship to come so close, and I thought it wouldn't be too long before another did the same. I'm sorry you were put in a bit of a spot today, but no harm has come from it, and you . . . you're getting what you wanted." His eyes narrowed. "You must admit it's a sweet note to wind up on. I'd have trusted you quite some distance, Jenny. Just shows how even a man of my experience can be hoodwinked!" "Please, Philip." Jenny controlled the tremor in her voice. "I wish I had some easy explanation of how I felt, but there isn't one. Perhaps I thought about it too much and came to a muddled conclusion. You and I had always been on a rather precarious footing with each other, and I didn't want to do anything that might ... stir things up." "And what happened between you and Wellard," he asked slowly, clearly, "to make you feel I might not understand? It's quite obvious that you got to know each other pretty well that day." "He was here all the afternoon, and naturally we talked." "Did you go to the ship?" "I did not!" "Did he ask you to go?" She swallowed. "Yes. I know it was wrong not to be open with you at the time. . . ." "Well, you've learned something, then. Tell me," he had come to the table and was looking down at her in a way that made her feel weak, "why didn't you sail with him and leave me a note, as he wanted?"

Jenny had been expecting this question, yet she could form no sensible reply. She knew an urgent need for truth between them, and even on this particular point she could not give him a direct lie. "I . . . don't know," she whispered. "You know, all right, and so do I. You stayed," his eyes glittered, "because you considered it safer to remain with the devil you knew than to sheer off into the blue with an ardent sailor who had yet to prove himself. You liked the fellow but hadn't had time to find out if you could trust him." Jenny didn't refute this because she had no alternative to offer. Imagine confessing that she hadn't been able to leave him! Lowvoiced, she asked, "Have I given you reason to believe the worst of me?" He turned back to the packing, folded the rug over the clothing before he said briefly, "Let it go. It can't be undone." "You could try to be reasonable." "I've been reasonable for too long. How do I know you haven't deceived me in other ways? Not that it matters, now. This time tomorrow we should be in Singapore, and my responsibilities where you're concerned will be ended." Jenny's fingers sought the edge of the table. "Yes, that's so," she said. "I'm sorry it had to finish up this way, but you must be very pleased that Ben did come today. He brought the letter from your Delice." "The nicest letter I've bad from her," he said, giving the cord round the bundle a hard tug. He stood up, smiled unpleasantly. "I suppose when you go back to the plantation you'll be as honest with Lewis Garve as you've been with me. You'd better let me know the story

you aim to put over, so that if I ever meet the man I can back you up." "Once you and I part in Singapore," she said quietly, "we shan't meet again." "I suppose that's true." He moved towards the doorway. "I'll eat up the beach with the Malays, and send some food down for you. You were invited, but I said you were tired and had much to do." "I see." "And you might give that box of rubbish to whoever brings your meal." "Very well." He stood there a moment longer, his face dark and tight; then he went out. Jenny took in a breath through dry lips and sat down on the chair. Philips jacket still hung on the back of it; she could feel it against her drooping palm. It was a drill jacket with deep pockets, part of the drill suit he had worn the day she first saw him. On the ship he would have the suit sponged and pressed, so that in Singapore he would look as others did. She wondered what he would do about other clothing, decided dully that he doubtless had if all planned. He knew Singapore. She looked down sideways and saw the letter in the top pocket. The envelope was doubled with the fold uppermost so that she saw a thin segment of his name and the address of the club. Strangely, she hadn't the least desire to read one word of what the woman had written. It would be in neat spidery French, and flattering, because French women were born with the knowledge of how to please men.

There would be a sufficient number of endearments and a hint of what he might expect when he arrived in Paris. Jenny accepted it. She couldn't fight any more. The evening passed slowly. Kaikai brought her a plate of meat and baked yams which she buried in the sand. He came again with a small jar of kava, and he told her, haltingly, that the tuan had given him this house to be his own. He wanted the memtuan to know that his wife would keep the hut as it was kept now and that they might even use the wondrous stove. Perhaps the mem and the tuan would come back to see them some time? The Malays had quickly accepted the inevitable. They feasted and danced a while in the firelight. Then the women and children were sent away and the men sat with Philip, endlessly talking. Jenny saw it all from the doorway, and in the red glow it looked unreal. She made a last pot of coffee but could drink none, killed the fire in the stove and sat in the dark on the sand, and looked at the ship beyond the lagoon. It seemed to be moving, and for a suffocating moment her mind was chaos. But it had been an illusion. The ship was waiting, would go on waiting till they reached it. But the moment taught her something: she didn't want to stay at Tamarisk Bay any longer. If the ship were to leave her behind with Philip now, life would be insupportable. From here, they had to go on; there was no going back. Which, tomorrow morning, might be a heartening thought, she reflected on a sigh. Eventually, Philip came down. Kaikai and another Malay came with him and were given the parcel of clothing, the overcoats and other oddments which they took down to one of their own canoes. Jenny put on her shoes, gathered up her handbag.

Neither she nor Philip took a last look round the house. They went down into the throng of Malays gathered near the sea, suffered the garlands of jungle flowers about their necks, made the appropriate replies and farewells. Amid shrill singing to the swaying of brown bodies they got into the canoe, were pushed off. The beach receded, became a small glow in the night. The canoe slid through a division in the coral, and for the first time since she had come to the East, Jenny was in open sea. Within ten minutes they, were at the ship's side, and Ben was there, steadying the rope ladder. There were handshakes, a spate of Malay. "Come back, tuan! Come back, memtuan!" The engine throbbed through the deck planks, the ship moved and the Malays let go of the rope ladder so that it could be hauled up. The canoe was swallowed by the night. Jenny stood near the old deck rail, took off her garland and dropped it on the sea. Superstition had it that if the garland floated to land one would return some day to that shore. Jenny knew that hers would disintegrate on the coral. She was thankful that it was night, that there could be no watching a disappearing coastline.

CHAPTER TEN JENNY had not touched at Singapore on her way out from England. With the Bodens she had changed ships at Penang, and it had often been a matter of regret to her that she had not seen the teeming metropolis of the East. Well, here was Singapore, and it did nothing at all to her heartbeats. The dock lighting was weak but the town was brilliant behind it; and the smell was strong but not altogether unpleasant. She stayed aboard while Philip, insisting on keeping his earlier promise, went ashore and bought her a surprisingly good striped silk frock, some shoes and a suitcase; he bought a second suitcase for himself. It seemed one could acquire anything at any hour in Singapore. Jenny changed in the cabin, put her other clothes into the suitcase and came out on deck to say good-bye to "Ben. Philip, in the pressed drill suit and with his coat over his arm, helped her on to the dock and into a taxi. He had already dealt with the customs. "Raffles Square," he instructed the driver. The hotel entrance was slightly Victorian but sumptuous. Huge ceiling fans vibrated gently, a number of messengers and stewards in pale chocolate uniform and red fez stood at their posts beside doorways and pillars, and behind the massive reception desk a Eurasian in formal dress smiled subserviently. "Good evening, madam. Good evening, sir. You have booked?" "Not yet." Philip let a boy take charge of the bags and coats. "Two single rooms with a private bath each—the best you have and on different floors." The Eurasian was bland. "You are asking a great deal, sir, particularly as you have not booked in advance."

"Don't let's waste any time," said Philip. "Miss Manson is tired and would like to go straight to her room. And I want to send a cable to Paris; do you keep forms here?" A key attached to a heavy white plastic rectangle was passed across the counter to a porter. The boy separated Jenny's coat and suitcase and took them to the lift. Philip went half-way across the vestibule with Jenny, detained her with a hand on her elbow. "Take a bath and get into bed," he said. "I'll have a meal sent up to you. Think you'll be all right?" She nodded, looking away. "Thank you for everything." "Now that we're here I've a lot to do. There are the things I promised that family back at the beach, and courtesy calls on government men. I have to get some new suits—but they're no difficulty. There's a tailor here who keeps one of my suits as a model, and he'll copy it for me within twenty-four hours. I'll need several, though. You can do with plenty of new frocks and things, yourself." "Do your shopping fairly early in the morning. There are plenty of stores quite close and you'll find everything you need in them. Jenny . . . about cash." "I have plenty, thanks," she told him stiffly. "Don't be an idiot about it!" "I really do have plenty. Apart from quite a few pounds of my own, I still have the rest of the money Tim Boden game me for the air fares." "You mean you'd rather use his than mine?" "It's simpler. I can pay him back from my account in Boekarta."

He shrugged. "Have it your own way. Would you like me to get in touch with this Mrs. Greenwood—Mrs. Boden's sister?" "No, I'll do that myself—when I'm presentable." His glance slid sharply over her face. "All right. Cut along to bed. I'll see you some time tomorrow. Good night, little one." She, answered him and went to the lift. The door closed with a small thud and she thought, "This is it. I'm on my own now." The lift ascended to the second floor, she was led along an arched corridor, let into a room that was large and airy, and was at last alone. She looked at the white monogrammed bed-cover, at the faintly billowing curtains near the open french window, and walked on to a balcony whose outlook was the top of a palm tree above a narrow, noisy street. By stretching her neck she could make out Chinese signs above small shops, the bobbing pork-pie hats and coolie straws of the throng. A smell of incense and jasmine flowers hung on the hot humid air. Yes, it was hotter here than at the beach. But there were people, crowds and crowds of them; it was nearly two years since she had last seen a packed street. She switched on the fan, went into a bathroom which was whitetiled in the old-fashioned way, but finished with pale green plastic curtaining over the window and in the shower cubicle. She turned on the water, heard a rap on the room door and went to open it. The boy had brought a package and she thanked him and closed the door. Sandalwood soap, she discovered, a phial of gardenia perfume and in a small box a supply of paludrine— one tablet to be swallowed each morning. Jenny pressed her fist against her temple. If only he'd forget something once in a while! She just couldn't endure kindness that had nothing behind it. That unending trip on the ship, when he had

spoken to her as if she were a child in his care, those long hours trying to sleep in the cabin, while the men used hammocks on deck; she wanted to finish with them, put them well behind her! But it was innate in Philip to remember details, part of his fascination for women. The ladies' man, she thought fiercely. She might be able to watch him in action before he left for Europe. She had her bath, was hardly aware of the luxury of fragrant soap and warm water, of huge towels that dried without rubbing. She got into bed, and as if she had pressed a bell to announce her readiness, the meal appeared. Had she made a guess at his order she would have been dead right. The greenest salad procurable, slices of cold turkey and tongue, crisp rolls and plenty of butter, orange compote and a pot of Ceylon tea. Jenny could have hurled the appetizing tray through the window.

Next morning she' felt a little better. It had started off by being a gruelling night, what with the heat and the sounds below in the street, the insidious twists of her memory, and the recurring reminder that Philip's first action in Singapore had been to send a cable to Paris. But about midnight the sounds had died, and the humming of the fan combined with the unfamiliar comfort of the inner-spring mattress had proved sleep-inducing. She had awakened to find a soft-footed boy at her bedside with morning tea, a newspaper and a pencil poised above a pad. "The mem's wishes for breakfast, please?" She told him toast and fruit. It seemed that women seldom went down to breakfast. They lazed, and eventually went out to bridge

parties or, if they Were tourists, sightseeing. Jenny discovered that she was in a category of her own. She took her time about dressing and went downstairs at about nine. She passed between small groups of guests in the verandah and went out into the street. It was already hot, but Jenny didn't mind. In spite of herself, she was caught up in the blend that is Singapore. It was as crowded as the West End of London and infinitely more colourful. There were turbans and little silk caps, black silk pyjamas, sarongs, veils, flowing robes and saris. The more prosperous wore European clothes, so that it was difficult to tell whether they were Chinese, Malay or Jap. In a large store that was amazingly English she bought five frocks. Four of them were gay silks, and the fifth was a lettuce-green brocade of calf-length with a cutaway neckline at the front and a stiff, upstanding collar. She- bought new lingerie and stockings, high-heeled sandals and a jaunty white boater that made her look sixteen. Caught up in the feverish business of becoming even more the Jenny Manson of poise and independence, she invested in a range of expensive cosmetics, and spent nearly two hours in the store's beauty shop. Her hair emerged as fine and sand-silky as it had ever been, but she thought it a little paler close to her brow. Did sun-bleached hair grow out? she asked. "Not always," the olive-complexioned young woman answered her, "but why should you wish it? Now it is short, your hair is enchanting. A manicure, madam?" Why not? She had never had a professional manicure in her life! "Yes, please—pink varnish." "And the toenails?"

Jenny nodded recklessly. She just had to get away from the person she had been during the past few weeks. Her skin was very brown compared with that of other white women here, but it seemed to go rather well with the various clothes she had bought. Next to the beauty shop in the same store was a cafe, and Jenny slipped in there for an iced drink. A few men sat at other tables, and at the nearest a large red-faced major was talking loudly to a whitesuited business type. Jenny wasn't sure whether she herself had altered the trend of their conversation, but she did notice the large man's disapproving glance in her direction, and there was no mistaking what he was saying. "Women are still the problem, old chap, I tell you it's true. White women in the tropics have always been a problem because you've got to keep them occupied or they run wild. And how the deuce can you keep them busy when they have all the servants they want?" The other sounded drily humorous. "White women wouldn't be a problem if there were enough of them. Ask the bachelors!" Jenny had heard it all before., She paid her bill and went back to the hotel to find her orders already delivered. She shook out the frocks and hung them in the capacious wardrobe, put her shoes on the rail, substituted Chinese silk pyjamas for the crumpled ones which had been washed too often in salt water, and tipped out the contents of her handbag, ready for the change into the -new white one. She had spent extravagantly, but one was allowed to do so on the first real shopping spree in two years. At Bogkarta she had saved most of her salary, had made her own frocks and washed and set her hair herself; her growing account at the bank had been modest but heartening. It ought to be possible to transfer an amount to Singapore, but there was no hurry. The hotel bill would be

enormous but she was by no means broke. In any case, she might soon be transferring to Mrs. Greenwood's' house. This last thought, she realized, was completely distasteful. She wanted to meet Mrs. Greenwood and to see the children, but somehow she couldn't yet face slipping back into that kind of household. With the serious-minded Mary Boden she had gradually become friends, but her mood of the moment was quite different from any she had known before. Besides, at Mrs. Greenwood's there would be four children, not two, and though the prospect had not deterred her when she had set out with Peter and Diane, she now found it appalling. Jenny was honest with herself. Things had happened to change her, and she felt she could never be a private governess again. She had to have lots to do with plenty of people, no frightening pauses in which to feel benighted. She was jarred by the ringing of the telephone. Almost, she didn't answer it. Her fingers tight on the receiver she said, "Yes?" "Is that Jenny? This is Ben." Relief, yet desolation. "Oh, hallo, Ben. Nice of you to call." "How are you liking the town?" "It's marvellous. So is the hotel." "Look, Jenny, I'm leaving tomorrow—sailing at about ten in the morning. I was wondering . . . you did say you'd like to see some of the spots you can't go to alone. Can I take you?" "Yes, of course. When?"

A- smile came into his voice. "From now until tea-time it will be too hot. May I call for you at four-thirty? I've managed to borrow a car." "Fine. I'll be down in the lounge." He hesitated. "Let's make it the vestibule. That's a promise, isn't it?" "Do you doubt me, Ben?" "No, only . , ." He started again. "I'll be there, waiting for you." She dropped the telephone back into place, resolutely told herself that it was good to have the day taken care of. She washed her hands, combed the set look from her hair and used some of the new make-up. It was lunch time. Should she go down or have something sent up? Was deliberate avoidance any good? Jenny didn't know, but some of her courage had come back, and there was an odd little ache of longing to see him again, if only at a distance. Last night was an age away. She went down to the long discreet dining-room, passed with the head waiter between acres of sparkling white tables and casual guests. The waiter paused at an exposed table for two. "A table for one," she said firmly, "preferably against . the wall." She got what she asked for, ate a light lunch, and went through to the writing room. She had kept her head high, looking at no one, but she knew Philip had not been in the dining-room. He could never be anywhere within a hundred yards without her knowing it. Lunching with his friend Channing, probably. She wrote a brief letter to her brother, told him about the floods and asked him not to write till he heard from her again. She sent her love

to both him and Cicely, and left it at that. No use writing to Mary till she had seen Mrs. Greenwood; both would wait till tomorrow. She rested in her room for a while, took a shower and got into one of the new frocks. It was white with red flowers splashed over it, and with it she wore the white boater and sandals. She looked very young and immaculate, deliciously cool. At four-thirty she took up the new handbag and went downstairs. ' Ben was already planted firmly opposite the reception desk. In a rugged fashion he looked quite handsome in the Palm Beach suit; he had even managed to quell the unruly hair. His expression, as he met her, was comical. "I'd never have had the courage to ask you to go out with me if I'd known you were going to look like this! You're adorable, Jenny." "You're smart as paint yourself," she said, and added hastily, "Shall we go at once? The reception clerk's awfully interested." He took her arm, seemed unable to drag his glance from her face. They moved to the spacious entrance, crossed the verandah, descended the marble steps. And there, at the kerb, turning away from paying off a taxi-driver, was Philip. For seconds, Jenny was paralysed. She felt Philip's appraising glance, saw the non-committal nod of his hat- less head, and was aware that he passed behind them into the hotel. But Ben was so bemused that he had not seen him at all. Automatically, Jenny walked to the side street where the borrowed car was parked. She got into the front seat, felt Ben get in beside her and the car move away.

"Not a bad little bus, is it?" he said cheerfully. "If I were to settle somewhere I'd get one like this. Cars are hard to come by in Singapore, you know." "Are they?" she answered mechanically. Then: "Ben, do you know anything about the air service to Europe from Singapore?" "Not much, but I did hear there's a plane leaving tomorrow for Cairo and London." He couldn't get away as soon as that. "You've no idea When the next one leaves?" "None at all. Don't say you're running out on us!" She smiled with her lips. "I'm stuck here for a while. All my personal belonging are at Boekarta." "You speak as if you're not going back to Sumatra." "Well, one never knows." She took a grip on herself, pointed to a narrow street they were passing. "I'd love to poke around those shops." "We'll stop as soon as we're out of this jam. Just look at that idiot!" Jenny watched the panting coolie tearing in and out of the traffic with a two-wheeled cart behind him. In the cart among pillows sat an immensely fat man clothed in a pink silk robe with a purple cummerbund and a white turban. The constriction eased in her throat. She would enjoy this if it killed her. The shops were unbelievable. Sallow, almond-eyed shopkeepers passively awaited customers, or gently persuaded those already within that their goods were the best in Singapore. They displayed silk shirts of excellent quality, bales of heavy satins, muslins, pastel-

shaded sari silks, beaten silver ornaments, necklaces that were really beautiful and ridiculously cheap because they were made in back rooms by Indians. The walls between the shops were spattered with sales slogans in half a dozen languages, commercial vans jammed the narrow roadways, and when the congestion seemed immovable up would stride a tall, bearded Sikh policeman or perhaps one of his square Malay colleagues, and the barrows and carts, the vans and pedestrians would begin moving again. Jenny brought a dress pin and bracelet of white baby elephants strung together alternately with gold beads. She admired the serious faces of the Europeanized young women, but wished they had kept their hair straight and shining. They went down to the Moslem quarters. Jenny marvelled at the dome of the Sultan Mosque against the vivid blue sky, but Ben thought it might not be wise to penetrate too deeply into the milling throng in the; vicinity. He got her back to the car. "Shall we find some fresher air? Ever heard of Haw Par Villa?" "No. What is it?" "A show-piece on fairy tale lines. You'll like it." So they strolled within the ground of the Haw Par Villa, and Jenny was entranced. The delicate little pagodas, the plump laughing Buddhas, the lovely animated animals, the happy human children who marvelled at all those figures carved out of pastel rock, were part of an unforgettable scene. It was quite dark when they came away. "And time to eat," said Ben decidedly. "I suggest a hotel, but not yours."

This suited Jenny. She did not want to go back to her bedroom till she was utterly exhausted. They passed over a bridge, and below them lay hundreds of sampans and prahus, packed together with only half a dozen lamps between them. "The population of this city must be tremendous," said Jenny. "Everywhere swarms with humanity." "Orientals are people of the streets," Ben said. "Only women stay indoors, and not many of those in these days." He gave her a sideways glance. "Do you mind if we forget Singapore far a while? Tomorrow I set out on a three- months' trading Cruise." "Where are you going?" "Makassar, and onwards." "It must be exhilarating, sometimes, to be free and at sea." "We won't go into that," he said. "Just now, I've a yen to be tied up permanently, on land!" "Once a sailor, always a sailor." "I'm afraid so." They dined at a hotel a few miles along the coast, sat in a verandah filled with basket chairs and potted palms. The surf lapped almost to the steps of the verandah and a few little boats sat on the waves, dark bobbing blobs on moving silver. There was a dancing floor open to the sky, and a small band of Continentals making music for a dozen or so couples. A woman who looked Egyptian performed a ritualistic sort of dance as a cabaret turn, and when her place was taken by a couple of tubby Malay acrobats, Jenny felt she had really had enough.

"The trouble with the tropics," she said, stifling a yawn as Ben set the car in motion, "is that no one wakes up till the evening. Then into about six hours they pack all the activity that should be spread over twelve or fourteen hours. I've never acquired the habit of midday sleep." "You're probably tired now because you didn't sleep on board. Jenny," he made a complication of avoiding an approaching car, "when I saw you the first time you weren't unhappy. It's not my business, and you can shut me up if you want to, but . . . well, what I want to say is that if there's anything I can do . . ." He stopped, exasperated with himself. "Not very lucid, am I? But you know what I mean." "Yes, I know, Ben," she said quietly. "There's nothing you can do. But why should you want to?" He floundered again. "I'm leaving—and I thought there might be some little thing. It's just that I want to help if I can." "I don't need help, Ben. You're very kind, but I don't." "You're not so happy as you were, though," he said doggedly. She spoke more lightly. "Maybe I've got more cares. You've been very nice to me today." "I guess you're the sort of girl any fellow could be nice to." Was that it? she wondered thinly. Was there something harmless and innocent about her that made even a man like Philip Brooke anxious for her health and sanity? If so, the knowledge was rather humiliating. She had always prided herself on possessing a certain amount of sparkle and a hint of sophistication.

Ben did not go with her into the hotel. He drove a short way past the magnificent commissionaire in turban and red sash, and got out with her. He held her hand between both of his. And though she thanked him, he thanked her more. "I may never see you again, Jenny, but I shan't forget you. In time, I shall put your copra station on my route, but for me it'll never be Tamarisk Bay. It'll always be Jenny's beach." "You must get married, Ben," she said firmly. "Find someone sweet and worth going home to." "I may even do that—because there'll never be another Jenny. Goodbye." Nothing emotional in his tones; only a breathy laugh, as though he were ashamed of himself. He dropped her hand quickly and got into the car. Jenny waited till he was moving before turning to enter the hotel. They were dancing here, too, but she did not stay to watch. She went up to her bedroom and got into bed. The day's grace she had allowed herself was over.

When she telephoned the Greenwood house next morning it was some time before she could make Mary's sister realize that Jenny Manson was here in Singapore and would like to see her. "Well, certainly. I have some of my husband's business friends coming for lunch. Can you get here around tea- time this afternoon?" "At four?" "Ye-es. Fourish." She sounded doubtful. "If I'm not ready you must wait. Are you alone in Singapore?"

"Yes, but that's not important." "Is it because you're alone that you chose such an expensive hotel?" This was going rather far. 'This is the first holiday I've had in years, Mrs. Greenwood. I assure you I can afford to pay my hotel bill." "I didn't mean to offend you, my dear. You're strange here and I thought . . . well, never mind. Come around four." Mrs. Greenwood's manner was a shock for Jenny. She had imagined a slightly older edition of Mary, a woman who respected others and had certain loyalties. But it seemed that Mary's sister was both vague and something of a snob. Jenny thanked heaven she had not gone to the house straight from the ship! Again, she lunched in the dining-room. The food was superb, the service excellent, but Jenny was beginning to find everything just a little too splendid. She looked around at the people and they annoyed her. She looked at that table for two which she thoughtmust be Philip's, and couldn't swallow another mouthful. Impossible to go on tormenting herself like this. She sat down in the lounge with the Straits Times, tried to concentrate on the thin layer of Western civilization that overlaid the teeming Orient, but found it was no good. She was too restless to concentrate on anything. When a steward wandered through the room and gazed at her in concern, she realized that she was probably the only white woman in Singapore who was not at this moment in bed. Mustering a degree of nonchalance, she folded the newspaper and set it aside, got up and went to her room. For the visit to Mrs. Greenwood she wore pink and white check with white collar and cuffs. She ordered a taxi for half-past three, gave in her key at the desk and handed the taxi-driver a slip of paper pencilled with the address. And as they zigzagged away from the

centre of town she resolutely thought only of how good it was going to be to see the children again. The Greenwood house was a pretentious one-storey affair of white stucco and yellow paint. It rambled across a garden where stone ornaments abounded among a profusion of flower beds and a maze of paths. The veranda was deep and heavily shaded, and the door was painted a glossy black. Cautiously, Jenny lifted the beaten brass elephant that served as a knocker. A white-suited Malay opened the door and stood aside, closed her into a hall so dim that she could barely make out the two small chintzy chairs and Tudor oak table. She was shown into another dim room which was even more English, and sat down in a flowered silk chair. After which there was a long silence. The silence ended in a scurry of feet outside, and the two children burst into the room. At least, Peter erupted and flung himself at Jenny, while Diane, with her usual benign composure, trotted in and stood by indulgently, watching her brother's display. "We've wondered such a lot about you," Peter said breathlessly. "Haven't we, Diane?" He gave his small sister a push. "Say hallo to Jenny, you little goop." Blandly, Diane obeyed, holding up her cheek to be kissed. "Where have you been, Jenny? Auntie was cross that you didn't come with us, but it'll be all right now. She doesn't care." "Have you been happy?" Jenny asked them. "Do you like living with your cousins?" "They're not bad," Peter said with a rising inflection that probably meant they were quite good. "It's really more fun here than at the plantation, and I liked the school."

Jenny nodded, was surprised that the slight adjustment in his loyalties did not hurt. "Do you write regularly to your mother?" "Yes, every Sunday. Auntie makes us. It seems a long, long time since we saw you, Jenny. What have you been doing?" "Trying to get to Singapore. Tell me about your lessons." Diane, sitting on the floor, began to chant the alphabet in phonetics. Jenny listened right through, applauded when the chant ended. It was a system Jenny did not approve of, but she had to admit that almost any system would be successful with Diane, because the child never got tied up about anything. At each lesson she assimilated as many facts as her brain could hold, and let the rest slide. Hers was exactly the sort of brain one would wish a child to have; her nature, too, come to that, though Jenny had always had a softer feeling for the sensitive Peter. But it seemed that given a new set of circumstances, even Peter could change somewhat. He talked about school, and about his cousin Guy, who was four years older and therefore to be worshipped as a hero. It was Guy with whom Peter would go to school in England, so it was fortunate that they had taken to each other. But somehow seeing the children accentuated Jenny's sense of loneliness. It was a quarter to five when Mrs. Greenwood at last trailed in. She was taller than Mary and not so dark, and most of her life, it would seem, she had had things very much her own way. She waved the children out of the room, pulled a blind cord so that she could see Jenny more clearly, and came to sit on a chair just opposite. For Jenny, the light from the window showed up a long face of tropic pallor, eyes that were an uncomfortably hard brown, and a

well-kept figure in dark green linen. She felt like a pupil teacher meeting the principal for the first time. Mrs. Greenwood's voice was more flexible than her looks, but she conveyed only a half-interest in her guest. The vagueness was a veneer. "1 know all about you, of course," she said. "For the first week they were here the children talked about you incessantly—at least, Peter did. I thought it was a little silly in a boy." "It wasn't, really," Jenny commented. "I had lots to do with Peter at the plantation. Diane was too young for him and there were no children. He used to like talking to me." "Well, he has healthier associations now. I put him to school with my own son, but they'll both be finishing there at the end of next term. Diane was the problem. I need you for her." "I'm so sorry things turned out as they did," said Jenny. "Goodness knows what would have happened to the children if ... if someone hadn't given up a plane seat for them. I hope Peter explained properly." "Oh, yes. We heard that you'd been left alone with a man at some spot up the river. What was he — a planter's foreman?" Jenny felt the faint insult implicit in the inquiry; she was, after all, a paid governess. "He was a government official," she said stiffly. "Really? Then I may know him. What was his name?" So it had come out. "Philip Brooke," she answered briefly. "He'd be the polo-playing Brooke, I should think! He brought a team from the islands about a year ago." She peered forward at Jenny's

face. "You're quite pretty, but I don't think you'd be his particular dish. I did hear there was someone . . ." "Yes, there's someone," said Jenny swiftly. Then, desperately, "Diane does seem to be learning. Is she settled somewhere?" "Diane? Oh, of course. She has morning lessons with a woman who gave nursery lessons to my younger son. The child likes it, and our Indian nurse has become very fond of her." A pause. "In fact, I'm not too sure she needs you here. We have another spare room, and if you'd arrived here with the children I would certainly have arranged that you carry on teaching them. But," with a shrug, "I had to make other arrangements. For Mary's sake, I'll be glad to take you in for a while, though." "It isn't necessary, Mrs. Greenwood," said Jenny quickly." "Have you any plans?" "I couldn't plan till I'd seen. you. I must think it all over." Mrs. Greenwood gave a lift to her brows that hinted of patronage. "I might be able to help you. I know other people with small children. One particular friend of mine has twins who are nearly four, and she might be glad to try your services. The fact that you stayed with my sister for a year and a half is a good recommendation, though I can't think what you've been doing during the past six weeks." Jenny knew for certain, in that moment, that she could never have any dealings with this woman. She stood up. "Have you ever been hemmed in by floods, Mrs. Greenwood?" "We have some good rains here, I can assure you!" "Do you think Mrs. Boden would have sent her children away if there hadn't been tremendous danger at Boekarta? Well, I

discovered that Boekarta was as safe as Singapore, compared with the coastal district near the Lumani River. We were rescued by sea." "All I can say it that it seems very odd. We've even had a letter through from Mary." "By air, no doubt." Jenny was tired of it. She asked stiltedly, "Is everything going well at the plantation?" "They've had a few minor disasters." Mrs. Greenwood crossed to an incongruously heavy black oak desk, drew out a drawer and extracted from it a couple of letters. "These came for you only a week or so ago. One from my sister and the other, I presume, from one of your friends there." Jenny took both letters without looking at them and slipped them into her bag. "Thank you very much, I'm delighted to have seen the children again, and I'll mention it when I write to Mrs. Boden. I'll go now." "You mustn't think," said Mrs. Greenwood belatedly, "that I don't want to make you welcome here. I was glad as Mary herself that she was able to bring a governess out from England. Sumatra is such a queer country for English people and the children needed someone. In my last letter to my sister I told her that as soon as you turned up I would offer you a bedroom here." "You're very kind," said Jenny automatically. "I'll write to Mrs. Boden about it myself." And that, more or less, was the end of the interview. Mrs. Greenwood called a servant, the children ran to the veranda to say goodbye, and Jenny got into the waiting taxi. The sense of let-down was so tremendous that for a while she couldn't even be angry. And when she did begin to get a little worked up she saw the foolishness of it.

Mrs. Greenwood hadn't really acted badly. In such a place as Singapore she probably couldn't help being class-conscious, and her world simply did not embrace governesses and the like. Disgruntled at finding herself in charge of two unescorted children, she had done her duty by .Mary and was not willing to do more. Diane and Peter were getting along very well without their Jenny, so why complicate matters by drawing her into the household? In Mrs. Greenwood's opinion one had to be fair but firm in such matters. What Jenny had to understand was that that particular door had closed. It was unlikely that Peter would return to the plantation, and Diane was established with her aunt for at least three months. There was no doubt, at all that she herself could find a similar post in Singapore, but did she want to? The taxi took a different way back to town, was caught up in more traffic. They passed through a purely Chinese quarter, and Jenny saw narrow streets and washing hanging on bamboo poles from high windows. She saw a huge expensive car driven by a Malay, and within it a pompous towkay in immaculate white linen and a panama. Within half a mile of the hotel she dismissed the taxi. She was horribly thirsty—it had not occurred to Mrs. Greenwood to offer tea to a countrywoman who was not of her own idle, pleasure-seeking class—but is was cooler now. The sky was still brilliant but the sun was invisible, fallen behind the town. There were more white people about, but not many of them walked far. A woman in tennis kit would slide out of a car to buy something, and slide back again. A business man would talk to another under a portico, and both would discreetly eye the slim young woman in pink and white check, and perhaps ask one another what the East was coming to when such creatures walked about Singapore as if it were Regent Street.

Because she needed time before she could seriously contemplate her position, Jenny looked at the shops, paused on street corners to take in the ever-changing scene. It was getting dark as she went into the hotel. In the desk, a quiet Tamil clerk was relieving the usual receptionist. He gave Jenny her key, said politely, "Mr. Brooke wishes to speak to madam on the telephone. He is in his room." Though hot from her walk, Jenny shivered a little. "Is it . . . urgent?" "I do not know, madam. Please lift your telephone when you reach your room, and I will put Mr. Brooke through." As she went up in the lift Jenny felt queer and trembly, as if she were sickening for something. She went into her bathroom and bathed her face with the tepid water from the cold tap, crossed to the telephone and stood there for some seconds before daring to lift it. She listened and heard a click. Her throat ached with sudden pent-up longing to hear his voice again. It came coolly. "Jenny? I got back an hour ago and tried to get through to you, but you were out. I hope you're not overdoing it?" "No. No, I'm fine." She couldn't have said anything more just then had her life depended on it. "Well, I hope so." There didn't seem to be much feeling behind it. "Maurice Channing wants to meet you. I've invited him over for a drink and dinner. I thought we might have a table for three." "In the hotel?" "Unless you'd rather go somewhere else."

"The hotel will do." Why should your Mr. Channing want to meet me?" "Curiosity, I suppose. Seven o'clock in the lounge?" "I'll be there." She replaced the receiver gently, as if afraid to make a sound. A fist pressed over the beating of her heart. She must be calm and rational, and as light-hearted as it was in her to be. This would be her first encounter with Philip in normal circumstances, and she had to realize, as he realized even back at the beach, that they were two people who had been accidentally thrown together, and that but for a twist of fate neither might ever have cast a second glance in the direction of the other. Whatever intensity of emotion lay underneath, she must be light and casual. Her pride demanded it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN JENNY put on the lettuce-green brocade with the cutaway neckline and short stand-up collar, brushed gold into the short hair and used the minimum of make-up. Her eyes were bright with anticipation yet shadowed a little, because there could be no ecstasy without pain. After only two days away from Philip she was famished with the need to be close to him again, and hear him speak. At five minutes past seven she went down the wide staircase to the vestibule and turned through the big archway into the smaller of the two lounges. Philip got up from the armchair, tall, nonchalant in a white dinner jacket, his glance keen as it roved over her face and golden-brown throat, her appearance of clean-cut youth. "You're very lovely," he said. "Thank you." He waved a hand. "Come and sit down, Jenny. Maurice has gone out to make a phone call." "I thought men preferred the veranda." "We all seem to have been outdoors all day," he said. "It's cool in here. What will you drink?" "Something with lime or lemon, please." He gave an order, leaned back in his chair and put his cigarette case and lighter on the low table in front of him. "How have you been doing?" "Fairly well. It's an amazing town. Surprising how soon one can look normal."

"The tailors work night and day to fill an order; they're excellent, too. They've promised me two lounge suits for tomorrow night." A pause. "Did you go on a tour of the town last night?" You mean with Ben?" she said evenly. He showed me places I'd never have found by myself, and we had dinner at a hotel along the coast. He sailed this morning." "Yes, I know. You weren't there to see him off." She looked at him, lowered her glance. "Were you?"' "I loaded a second-hand oil-press on to his ship. Before we left the beach I told the Malays to go ahead with the construction of a landing stage. If it's there, Wellard will be able to deliver the press on his way along. If not, it will have to wait till he comes back." "You get things done quickly, don't you?" "I happen to be in a hurry." What more he might have added Jenny never knew, because Maurice Channing came to the table just then. He was above average height, sandy-haired and ruddy of complexion, and he had the sort of blue eyes that twinkled even without his meaning them to. His smile, when Jenny was introduced, was quite charming, and he hastened to seat himself beside her. "I'm mighty intrigued about you," he said, appreciatively absorbing the details of her face. "Philip's an oyster. He hasn't told us a thing." "Perhaps because there's nothing to tell," she commented. "Have you ever been marooned anywhere with a strange girl, Mr. Channing?"

"No, but I'd be more than willing to give it a try, especially if she were like you!" Jenny laughed. "The whole business depends on your outlook. Philip's was aloof and a little impatient." "And yours?" "Yes, Jenny," put in Philip in a calculated drawl. "Answer that one." "I was the weaker vessel," she said to Channing. "My outlook had to be guided by Philip's. It's a great relief to have it all over." "You can't pass it off like that," the man protested. "You two were there six weeks! What did you do?" Jenny looked at Philip, expecting him to say something brusque to put an end to the subject. But he was leaning back in his chair with a set smile, apparently willing to let her carry the topic almost alone. She met his narrowed glance, moved slightly while her drink was placed in front of her. "Well," she said, turning back to Channing, who sat on her left, "we built a house. . . ." "One house?" he queried politely. The faintest color rose in her cheeks and deepened, and she still smiled. "The house was for me, and for shelter when it rained. Philip had plenty to do. He made boats, became a copra king, killed wild pig, fished and exhorted the Malays to reach for a higher standard of living. For other food and household needs we raided a derelict store on the next beach." "To a point, it all tallies with what I know of the man," remarked Channing with a grin. "It must have been deadly for you, though."

It seemed to Jenny that something more than Maurice Channing's interest depended on her reply. She said, "I didn't have nearly enough to do, but it wasn't deadly. I bathed every day, did what cooking there was, washed our clothes." "And read Keats," inserted Philip softly. "And read Keats," she agreed stoically. "We went pearling a few times." "Find any?" from Maurice Channing. "Only third-grade ones. I believe Philip is selling them." "I've sold them already," he said, "for two hundred and ten pounds. The whole lot went to a jewel merchant, and I'm using the proceeds for the benefit of the natives." "Miss Manson's share, too?" Philip said, "We agreed on it. More ice, Jenny?" "Please." "Then you did find common interests?" Channing persisted. "You must forgive me, Jenny—may I call you Jenny?—but if Philip hadn't closed up on us I wouldn't be so inquisitive. I thought I knew him, but now I'm wondering." "What he's trying to get at, Jenny," said Philip in a voice that might have been lazy but for an odd undertone, "is whether I made love to you. Put the man at rest." Maurice Channing laughed. "No, don't tell me, Jenny. Those dark gold eyes of yours are entirely innocent." He flipped open Philip's

cigarette case and offered it. "You're staying on after Philip's gone, aren't you?" Jenny's fingers shook lightly as she took the cigarette. "Not for long." "But long enough for me to take you out a few times. When do you leave, Philip?" The broad shoulders lifted. "I've been offered a seat on a plane that leaves the day after tomorrow, in the morning." He snapped on the lighter, placed the flame for Jenny. "Have you seen Mrs. Greenwood yet?" She leaned back and willed herself to keep the agreeable surface, the bright indifference. "I went there this afternoon. It seems the children are well cared for and I'm not needed." "Does that mean you can go back as .soon as you like to the plantation?" "I suppose so. I shall have to work it out." "Did Mrs. Greenwood have any letters for you?" he asked noncommittally.' "Yes, she did." Jenny recollected that she had been so restless after talking to him on the telephone that she had completely forgotten them. Both were still in her bag. "There were two that arrived last week." "Are they all right in Boekarta?" "I believe so."

Channing said, "This must be the first time you two have met since you got in the other night. The way you're talking, I mean. Don't you ever see each other in the hotel?" "I've had to be out a good deal," said Philip. "But you should be free tomorrow. How about the two of you using my bungalow for the day, as it's your last? You can pretend to be marooned in luxury." Philip's smile was a shade tight. "Don't labour it, Maurice; you'll make me appear ungracious. I have a heavy lunch date with some government chaps. Another drink?" "Do you mind if we have dinner early? I've some boys coming »for poker at ten." In a way, Jenny was grateful for Maurice Channing in the diningroom, in spite of the fact that he was not altogether at ease. She chose hors d'oeuvres instead of fish and soup, and noticed that Philip did the same. Had he, too, had enough tinned soup and tropical fish to last him a long time? At the beach he had never complained about food, possibly because it wouldn't have got him anywhere. He'd never once railed against anything that couldn't be changed; herself, she had found that a good grouse was balm. When Maurice chose fish, Philip said to the waiter, "Bring plenty of green salad and two plates." "Salad isn't on the evening menu," Jenny remarked when the waiter had gone. "They'll have to prepare some especially for us." "Why not? We need it—at least, you do." Maurice looked inquiring. Jenny explained: "Little girls have to eat plenty of greenstuff. Didn't you know that?"

"Vaguely." Then, curiously. "Philip took his responsibilities mighty seriously, didn't he? No wonder he's seemed on edge since he got here." "That's rather an exaggeration," said Philip. "Believe it or not, I've had quite a few things on my mind." "Including Paris," inserted Jenny, without a tremor. "How soon after leaving here will you be in France?" "It takes three days," he said laconically. "I wish I were going with you this time," observed Maurice Channing. "This time?" With an air of ease Jenny raised her brows. "Have you two been on the loose in Paris together?" "We've been in Paris together," said Philip conclusively. "Let's leave it like that." The salad came, and they followed it with a steak, a small one for Jenny with grilled tomato. She ate an apple that was dewy from cold storage, and wondered how men could possibly wade through so many courses in such a climate. Apart from his lively interest in the way the two of them had lived at the beach, Maurice Channing was an excellent companion. Obviously, he had both admiration and a kind of affection for Philip, and it was the affection, Jenny guessed, that made him probe. But in all things he was cheerful. He was as sensitive as Jenny to the thread of cynicism in Philip's mood, and it puzzled him. It did not puzzle Jenny. She knew Philip hated the sort of thoughts that Maurice had entertained about their enforced stay on the beach, knew he was aware that others were thinking along similar lines.

This meeting tonight was intended to disabuse Maurice, who in turn would acquaint the rest with the fact that Jenny Manson was a child who would hardly appeal to Philip Brooke. Well, she couldn't blame him, but there was a bitterness in her. "I'll fix up something for the week-end, in case you're feeling low after this piece of tempered steel has gone off to France." "Why should I feel low?" said Jenny with a bright smile. "I don't know. It's the effect the fellow has on nearly everyone. He exhilarates you, then leaves you flat." "You've had a brandy too many," commented Philip drily. "About that party you suggested for tomorrow night—I'll ring you in the morning." Maurice said, "Will you come, Jenny? A farewell to Philip!" "Thank you," she said mechanically. Maurice went out to his car, and Jenny remained where she was with Philip. She felt spent and shorn of her defences. The street noises were muted by the line of small palms, but an occasional drift of scented smoke was a reminder that this was the sultry heart of the East. Further along the terrace a couple were standing near the low wall, half screened by green branches that rose from a huge wicker tub. They were very close, and occasionally a low laugh greeted some remark from the man. They looked at ease, oblivious of the brightly- painted night and of the fact that there were at least two others on the veranda. Jenny looked away, pressed out her cigarette on the tray nearby. "It's getting late. I think I'll go in." "It's not much after ten. What did you think of Maurice?"

"He's pleasant—the sort of friend I'd expect you to have." "Why?" "I don't mean anything controversial. He's friendly." "He likes you, too. Maurice has hoped for years that a real pretty unattached girl would come to Singapore; now, he's afraid he's waited too long—acquired too many years." "He's probably had as many chances as the rest," she answered in a voice gone slightly hard. "I'm a little tired of men who have hardand-fast ideas about women. In fact, I'm a little tired of men!" "Thanks," he said "I don't remember asking for that." "No?" She drew herself back into her chair. "Why did you invite me to meet Maurice Channing tonight?" "I told you, and he told you himself. He was curious." "And you knew that ten minutes with me would dispel any notions he might have gathered;" "Possibly, but it was more for your sake than mine. I'm a man, and I don't live in Singapore." He shifted, but didn't look at her. "If you're trying to pick a quarrel with me, Jenny, I'd advise against it. I'm in that sort of mood myself, and together we might cause quite an explosion." She felt the necessity for truth between them, as she had before, in different circumstances. "It's as you said, isn't it?" she commented quietly. "At Tamarisk Bay we were forced to find common interests; here, among people, we're perfect strangers."

His voice was level. "We've shared too much ever to be strangers. There'll be moments," a hint of derision crept into his tones, "when I'll haunt you and your doctor. Uncertainty about the woman he loves can break a man up, and your Lewis will never be quite sure about the six weeks that dropped out of your life at Tamarisk Bay. I wouldn't be in his shoes." "You're not concerned for Lewis," she returned, not too steadily. "Something else has turned up, hasn't it— something disagreeable that you're keeping to yourself?" "How clever of you," he said with sarcasm. "I expect you've also connected it with a woman." Till that moment, Jenny hadn't. But now it seemed to stand out a mile; she knew. "Was it . . . the letter that Ben brought to you at the beach? You said it was the nicest letter she'd ever written you." "One does sometimes use an adjective meaning just the opposite of what one means to convey." "So it was . . . bad news?" "Yes, and no. Delice is marrying her distant cousin, but I think she could have done better. Needless to say, I didn't put that in my congratulatory cable." Jenny was floating, and knocking against tall trees in the process. Sudden relief became swamped in a new tide of torment. Everything now was, clear. His impatience on the beach, his anger that last evening, his withdrawal in Singapore, and now this frame of mind in which he didn't care how badly he hurt others. So he really had loved his French Delice! "You're still going to Paris? she asked thinly.

His head turned her way and she caught the mocking glint in his eyes. "Delice isn't married yet." "There was a plane out today. Why didn't you take it?" "It's not that urgent. French betrothals last some time." He lifted his foot to the rail of an empty chair. "Apart from sending out that oilpress on Wellard's ship this morning, I've been arranging transport for the copra at the beach. I managed to fix it up as a regular thing, with a coastal shipping agent. Some time, that Malay family and any others who turn up there will have to convert that patch of jungle into a coconut plantation. When I get back I'll try to fix them up with a white superintendent—or perhaps with an educated Sumatran." "You became really interested in those people and their problems, didn't you?" He answered slowly, deliberately, "Have you ever thought how lucky that was—for you?" Jenny was saved having to reply to this by a movement of the other couple in the veranda. They had come from behind the palm and were strolling in the lane between the chairs and the wall, not speaking, but smiling, both of them. They passed Jenny and Philip, she saw their hands swinging close before the larger one enclosed the smaller and held it. "He's a local government official," said Philip with a trace of contempt, "and she's a tourist, in yesterday and due out tomorrow. That's the East for you." "There may be a swift genuine feeling between them," Jenny said, her nerves raw. "And what's so peculiar to the East about it? With you, it was Paris—and it will be again."

The raised foot came down beside the other with a click. He spoke coolly. "That's enough, Jenny. My sense of humour is not what it was." "That's too bad—as you might put it Because there are still plenty of amusing things in the world—even if one only laughs at oneself!" Her voice had risen. "You're used to having everything come your way, but you were out of action for six-weeks and things have been happening behind your back. Inwardly, you're blaming me, and nothing I could possibly say or do would please you. Well, I don't care." She was standing now. "You've got what you wanted out of me this evening. Mr. Channing is convinced you're cleared." "Be quiet!" He too was on his feet, and glittering down at her. "You aren't capable of understanding a thing. That's the reason I've avoided seeing you since we got here—and it's why I 'wasn't too keen on seeing you alone till I could get an objective slant on everything." "You don't have to see me alone—ever!" She faced him, straight and white-faced. "The worst thing that ever happened to me was being left behind with you at Puleng. If I could possibly undo those weeks on the beach I would. They've spoilt my whole life!" His eyes were still spots of brilliance in the dimness. "You really believe that, don't you? Because your mind is small and circumscribed, and Lewis Garve's mind is pretty much the same. You've never entirely grown up, and married to Lewis Garve you never will. Go to bed!" "If you're trying to clinch the argument by being masterful, you needn't bother," she said angrily. "I've had . . ." "For heaven's sake, leave it," he said abruptly, "or we may both say things we'll be sorry for!"

"You mean we may both be frank," she flung at him. "Well, even though narrow-minded, I'm not afraid. When you telephone Mr. Channing tomorrow you can tell him I won't be at your farewell party; if you like you may even tell him why." Her throat tightened unbearably. "I shan't see you again, Philip, and I shall do my utmost to forget your existence. Good-bye!" As she made to move he caught her elbow with hard fingers. "Good night," he said. "Let me go!" He did, and pushed his hands into his pockets. A dangerous softness in his tones, he said. "I believe I know why you hate me, Jenny. At the beach I woke you up, and it was darned uncomfortable. You'd rather read the poetry of passion than experience it for yourself. It's all made you horribly uncertain, hasn't it? You're not even sure that you want to go back to the plantation." "Of one thing I'm very sure," she answered through stiff lips. "I never want to see you again. Good-bye." She had passed him and taken a couple of steps, before she heard his firm, "Good night." Jenny entered the lift and went to her room. Her head throbbed abominably, and the skin over the whole surface of her body felt damp and cold. She took off the green frock and hung it up, got into the new coolie pyjamas and intensely disliked the sight she saw in the mirror. She walked around the room and out on to the balcony, but tonight the sights and smells made no appeal to her adventurous instincts. She came back into the room and sat on the side of her bed. Involuntarily, she was reminded of times when she had sunk down on to the primitive camp bed in moments of stress. She closed her

eyes and felt the grass walls close, the thatch not far above her head. Philip was there at the table, whittling away at the beastly chess figures and grinning his mockery at her. She thought what a good companion he had been nearly all the way through those weeks. He had laughed at difficulties and conquered them, given her all the physical comfort he could, nursed her while her leg was bad and helped her over other difficult patches. It wasn't his fault that his heart had remained untouched by Jenny Manson; after all, it had already been at least partly given elsewhere. They had come together accidentally and she had been susceptible; that was all. She lay back on the bed, pressed her forearm across her eyes. She had said good-bye, and meant it. The next step had to be something constructive, for the future.

Jenny read her two letters next morning, after she had bathed and had breakfast. In the spirit of plunging first into the most harrowing, she gave preference to Lewis' brief epistle, and at the end of it realized that he had renewed his proposal of marriage. It was not an effusive letter, not even a lover-like one, but there it was: "Now that you are away from me, Jenny, I feel sure you know your own heart. Tell me once and for all whether you're missing me enough to want to marry me as soon as you get back. I feel it is very important to us— this period of absence one from the other—a unique opportunity for you to get to know your own mind. What does it tell you, my dear?" The words roused no emotion; only a kind of puzzlement. Lewis hadn't ever seemed desperately eager to marry, but neither had he shown the sort of mentality that presents ultimatums. Had he been

angry to find her gone from the plantation? Did he consider that she should at least have left him a brief tender note of farewell? If she'd been in love with him, of course, she couldn't have gone without seeing him. Perhaps privately that was Lewis' contention, too. And quite rightly. Jenny slit the other envelope and read Mary's letter, was relieved to find it filled with fondness and gratitude. Mary couched her thanks gravely, said they had heard over the radio that the plane carrying twenty-eight adult and two child passengers had reached Singapore; she didn't doubt at all that those two children were her own Peter and Diane. "And now for our news. We had further rain just after you left, and streams of refugees came to the plantation. Marta van Haarden had to deal with the injuries and illnesses alone till Lewis got back, and he, poor man, wasn't at all fit. He'd broken his left wrist in an accident and hadn't been able to set it properly. Marta had to reset it and she's still doing most of the work—looking, I may say, as if she had never been happier. She's a sweet person, really, and I've thought once or twice that if you hadn't happened along for Lewis, those two might have made a go of it. Marta doesn't enjoy a lonely, self-centered existence, and I think that's why she gives so much of herself to the plantation boys and their families. But what can one do? Lewis never saw anyone but you. ..." Jenny broke off. But just now, Jenny wasn't there for Lewis to see, and Marta was not only on the spot but doing for him things that Jenny could never have done! In a way, Mary's letter was an elucidation of the one from Lewis, though he, dear unimaginative man, would never have regarded it that way. Jenny turned back to those few lines of even, masculine writing. Not a word about the injured wrist; nothing at all but a roundabout repetition of his proposal of marriage. What could it mean? That he,

too, had reached the conclusion that if Jenny weren't available, Marta would do nicely? No, she was being cynical; private hurt did warp one's reactions, but it wasn't fair to take it out on Lewis, even silently. She remembered the brief, overheard conversation between Marta and Lewis in which she herself had been the point of contention, remembered Marta coming through the waiting-room with scarlet pride and reserve in her features. Yes, Marta could easily be in love with Lewis. But he . . . well, Lewis was a marvellous doctor and his temperament suited the tropics. He could love, but he wasn't capable of deep passion. Jenny's heart twisted and hardened. White-hot love wasn't given to many people, she thought, and in every case it had to be the man who was capable of it. The man a woman loved could rouse any feeling in her, any . feeling. She shivered as though a goose trod over her grave, and went to the writing table. With very little trouble she answered Lewis' letter. She told him how much she had always appreciated his affection for her and how deeply she wished she could give him the love he deserved. She said she did not think, somehow, that she would marry in the East, that very likely she wouldn't marry at all. She mentioned his wrist and the fact that Marta had been his doctor, but didn't dwell upon it in case he suspected her thoughts as she wrote. He was to tell Mary that Jenny had seen the children and they were bursting with energy; that she would write soon. No, she couldn't write to Mary till she had plans. At present, nothing was formed or even very real. She would go to a cheaper hotel, study the advertisement pages in the newspaper, perhaps insert one of her own, offering her services as a kindergarten teacher. But would she rather teach in Singapore than elsewhere? Jenny felt she would never be sure of anything again.

She gave a servant the letter to Lewis for posting in the box downstairs, found that it was eleven o'clock and decided to walk along to the store she had patronized the other day, for morning tea or coffee. The cafe was crowded with women shoppers and men who had taken respite from the heat of their offices, but she was lucky enough to get a small table to herself. She ordered tea, leant over to select a periodical from a nearby rack and sat back to read. Nothing in the magazine held her interest. Jenny flipped over the pages, looked up to see who might be proposing to share her table. "Good morning," said Maurice Channing. "Do you mind an intruder?" Jenny drew back, clasped her hands on the glossy paper. "Not at all," she said with restraint. "I was just going." "That isn't true, you know," he said in an injured tone as he lowered himself into the chair opposite. "You don't want to speak to me." "We hardly know each other, do we?" she said distantly. "I wouldn't say that. As a matter of fact, I've been thinking quite a bit about you since we met last night, and when I saw you come into the store—I was at my office window across the way—I decided you were making for morning coffee and I'd do the same." He gave his order, leaned forward, his ruddy face earnest. "You baffle me, Jenny. I was actually ashamed of the way I baited you last night, and I was fed up because I didn't learn a thing— either about you or Philip. This morning, though, I have learned something. Philip was supposed to telephone me about tonight's party . . ." "I'm sorry about that," she put in quickly. "I really can't come." "But he didn't ring," Maurice said. "I phoned him instead. He told me you'd turned me down—he was sarcastic as hell about it, too.

Then he rang off." A pause. He added, "You must have had a good go at each other last night, after I'd gone." Jenny spoke quietly and clearly. "What you don't seem to understand is that there never has been and never will be anything between Philip Brooke and me. Chance threw us together in unorthodox circumstances, and now it's all over. It would be kinder to ignore the whole thing." "I suppose it would. I don't seem to be able to weigh him up at all, these days." He looked at her as if assessing the wisdom of what he was about to say, then shrugged, deciding to take the consequences. "You grew fond of Philip, didn't you?" he said. He was rewarded neither by a flush nor by sudden pallor. She merely tightening up. "You mean well, but you're doing no good, Mr. Channing." "I'm a fool," he said. "Certain things can worry me no end. You know Philip was going to Paris to see Delice Fournier, don't you?" So that was her name. "Yes, I knew it some time ago." "Back there, when you were alone together?" "Yes," she replied. "I knew and accepted it." She added bitterly, revealingly, "Philip took good care I should know." "Did he, by Jove? It never occurred . . ." He stopped suddenly, tacked on, "Look here, do come to this party tonight. You two haven't been together among other people, and if you're still here when he comes back from leave . . ." "I shan't be here, Mr. Channing."

"Well, come all the same, if only to prove to yourself and others that you don't care a bean for Philip Brooke." She looked his way quickly, and back at the magazine under her fingers. Steadily she said, "How does one look for a job in these parts, Mr. Channing? I can teach children up to the age of ten, I'm a good needlewoman and I've turned down two proposals of marriage. The post need only be temporary, but in a week or two it's going to become an urgent necessity." "All right," he said resignedly. "Before I met you last night I was more interested than even you guessed. Philip has never been quite so reticent about a woman before, but then, of course, he's never been shut off with one for weeks on end. I see now that there's something about you that he can't tolerate." She winced, and he made a sound, as if mentally kicking himself. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if I could mind my own business?" "It surely would." "At the risk of making matters worse, though, I'll plough through to the end." He dabbed a folded handkerchief across his brow, and took a sip of coffee that was much too hot. "What I want you to understand is this. It's not like Philip to hate people—least of all women. By that," he said hastily, "I mean that he has a natural way with women, of any age. I've often envied it. Delice Founder fell for it, but they only met a month before the end of his leave. Now, she sends a letter saying she's going to marry some cousin or other." "I've heard it," she replied wearily. He lifted his shoulders helplessly. "If he's already told you all this I'm wasting my time—and yours. He must have felt it all much more deeply than I thought. I haven't done you the least bit of good, have I?"

Just slightly, she softened. "I told Philip last night that I thought you very pleasant, and I still think it. I'll be glad of that fun you promised me for the week-end, and when I've booked new accommodation I'll let you know the address, so that you can get in touch with me." "Why wait till the weekend? Will you go to the polo with me this afternoon?" She hesitated. "Is there a motive in that invitation?" "Only a legitimate one. Philip won't be there, if that's what you mean. It should be exciting; they're trying out new ponies that have never played in a team before. Just a club match, but top class." "I'd like to come," she said. "Good." He downed the last of the coffee. "Can I drive you somewhere?" "I'm just walking back to the hotel." "I'll come for you at three-thirty. The match is at four- fifteen. I'd better get back behind my desk for an hour." She left him outside the store and turned towards the hotel. To have the afternoon taken care of was like being relieved of one of her burdens, and she felt sure that Maurice Channing now knew her well enough to keep off sore subjects. She wished she knew some calm and friendly woman in Singapore, one with whom she could have chatted as she used to chat with Mary at the plantation. Would she ever talk with Mary again, or would the belongings in her room have to be packed and despatched, her good-byes said in a letter? She shrugged off the depressing reflections, entered the hotel and without looking about her went to her room. She consulted the

telephone directory and asked the operator for the number of a small hotel just outside the town. After some delay she got through and booked a room, told them she would arrive before dinner. She had lunch sent up, packed everything except her frocks, and lay down with a book. But it was impossible to read. She got up and concocted an advertisement, was determinedly dissatisfied with it and rewrote it a dozen times. She walked on to the balcony and looked at the street, emptier now than at any other time of the day. She wouldn't stay in the East, she thought suddenly. She would go home by boat, but—not yet, because she couldn't bear to be in the same hemisphere with Philip. He was due back in four months; she would sail in three months. She might even take on those twins Mrs. Greenwood had mentioned, if the parents were willing to have her for only three months. Maurice Channing would help her through, and there must be a woman among his set who would respond to a gesture of friendship. She changed into a slim-cut blue silk which had skirls of white braid about the skirt. She made up deftly, so calculated the time that she was just ready when the clerk telephoned to announce Maurice. She went downstairs, spoke to the Eurasian behind the desk. "Will you make up my account for me, please? I shall be out for a couple of hours but I should like everything to be ready for me to leave as soon as I get back." "Madam is leaving Singapore?" His eyes flickered. "Is it possible there is a plane or a ship going tonight?" "Could be," she answered frigidly. "You'll do as I ask, won't you?" "Certainly, madam." Jenny nodded, and went out to where Maurice was waiting, near the car.

CHAPTER TWELVE POSSIBLY because it was unlikely to be the most exciting match of the season, the polo crowd was small. There were some here, explained Maurice, who never missed a match the whole year, and others who were hoping for fireworks from the new ponies—he belonged to the latter group. There being plenty of room today, he took Jenny into the big openended pavilion and proposed they should watch events from the comfort of a tea table. They were hardly seated before several of his friends wandered over, and a second table was pushed along to join the first, while they ranged themselves on three sides of the rectangle. They numbered eleven, and four of them were women. The field was wide and green and surrounded by trees. Posts and edging boards were a vivid white, and to the left, through branches, the long thatched roofs of the stables and outbuildings were visible. Malays led the horses to the edge of the field, and Jenny, who had witnessed very little polo, leaned forward with her elbows on the table, waiting for the start of the game. A dark woman in riding kit looked along the table towards her. "Do you ride?" she asked. "I used to hack around a bit at Boekarta, but the horses were slack compared with these." "You're strong, though. Polo ponies are thoroughly trained and fairly easy to manage." Maurice said, "Challenge someone your own weight, Sybil. Jenny never sat a polo pony in her life." He looked at Jenny. "Did you?" She smiled faintly. "No. They're grand-looking horses, though, aren't they?"

The woman named Sybil gave Maurice a wink but addressed Jenny. "You'll see my husband playing. He says that if you've a strong wrist there's no risk at all in polo. As a matter of fact, there are several women here who go in for a bit of practice after the match. You can join us, if you like." At first, Jenny thought she was jesting. These friends of Maurice Channing's were an odd, sophisticated crowd with a wide sense of humor, and the women, judging by their talk, chased both pleasure and the less physical types of danger almost with abandon. "I'm hardly dressed for it," she said. "That's easy. You can pull on a pair of slacks over your frock. There are plenty of oddments of clothing in the harness room." "Do you want her to break her neck?'" asked Maurice dourly. "Don't be stuffy, Maurice. The girl looks fed up, and there's no better way to snap out of it than to exhaust yourself on horseback. I'll make a bet with you—that after half an hour on the field she'll still be aloft and feel like a million." "You won't," he said flatly. "Where's your spirit, man? I've never known you to refuse a bet before." "How can I bet, if she's going to ride?" "She hasn't said she won't." Jenny said, "I'd rather like to ride, but I'd be in the way on the field." "There's a first time for everything," declared the blithe Sybil. "I'll fix you up."

Maurice stirred uneasily. "This has gone far enough. I brought Jenny here this afternoon . . ." But I'd like the experience," Jenny said, "and I need action. There won't be an audience, will there?" Sybil set her mind at rest. "By the time we're ready the gang will have cleared. You'll enjoy it, and who knows, between us we may form a genuine polo team. My dearest wish is to beat a team of men!" "You're crazy," stated Maurice with finality. "Leave Jenny alone." But Jenny looked at him with bright, unhappy eyes. "I want to ride, Maurice," she said. "I'm not in the least afraid of horses." "Then that's settled," put in the other woman. "I'll rouse up another couple of women and four men. Playing mixed sides we should have fun!" The main match began, and from the start the pace was breakneck. The men, in white topis, white shirts and khaki breeches, wheeled their ponies, raced down the field. The pounding hoofs, the ringing shouts of the riders, the smack of stick on ball, and the occasional mad sweep of a pony new to teamwork, combined to excite Jenny in a way she had never known before. It wasn't a pleasurable excitement, but a dreadful taughtening of nerves that felt that they would never be normal again. Once, in the middle of the match, she thought, "Philip has a polo team in Kinoi. He does this—was doing it before I knew him, and will do it again." And her heart had the feel of lead. Maurice went off to speak to someone he knew, and she was left there, curiously isolated among these others who seemed to have no mind or feeling beyond the thrill of the game.

The game ended, Maurice returned and said, "Let's go to bar for a drink." Bu' was no match for the man-eating Sybil. "You go for your drink and I'll take Jenny down to the paddock." "You can have a drink first, can't you?" he said with some belligerence. "Maybe Jenny's thought better of it." But Jenny was pale and determined. She had fastened on to the idea of wearing down her emotions on the back of a horse, and without speaking she moved away with the older woman and two others. They walked down among the trees to the stables, entered the separate building known as the harness room. Uncaring, she pushed the skirt of her frock down into a pair of roomy slacks, and slid the zipper. Another woman did the same and jested about her appearance. "You could wrap up in an eiderdown and look good," she said to Jenny. "With a figure like mine you just enjoy yourself and let the rest go hang." They went out together to the wide red road in front of the stables. Grooms were walking the ponies, and Sybil chose a silky chestnut for Jenny. "Up with you," she said, "and take a canter to get your hand in. Keep close to the trees in case you meet a car. These ponies don't care for traffic." Moving at a pony's trot, Jenny was less tense. Her mount was beautifully muscled, and though they were not going fast she had the sensation of speed because of the smooth co-ordination of his movements. She turned in through the trees, brought the horse round and let him make his own way back.

Fifty yards from the stables she saw a taxi reversing, to go back the way it had come, but she was alongside the paddock rails before becoming conscious that Philip stood there among the men. He leaned over and caught at her rein, and she looked down into a face so set that the nostrils were white and the edges of his teeth visible. "Come on down, Jenny," he said quietly. "I'm going on the field with the others," she answered coolly. "You're not. I don't want a scene, but I'll have you down off that horse if you don't dismount of your own accord." Her chin went up. "Just try, Mr. Brooke!" His eyes sparkled dangerously, his grip of the rein tightened. He spoke almost without moving his lips. "You're being watched. These people guess that I've come here to stop you riding on the field, and they love a spectacle. It excites creatures like Sybil to tame a horse ... or watch a man taming a woman!" "If you don't care to be a spectacle," she said fiercely, "get out of my way! And if you feel like mastering a woman, find someone else. I'm riding!" Jenny never did remember the following few minutes very clearly. She knew Philip's hand went higher on the rein, that his other arm came up as if to haul her down, but her own actions remained a blur. Actually, Maurice Channing was best placed to see the whole of the incident. He saw Jenny jerk the rein and at the same moment dig her heels into the pony's flanks, saw the chestnut rear and turn, streak down the road on the grass verge. Then Philip's jacket swung on the paddock rail, the tall figure leapt into the nearest saddle and was away like lightning.

Maurice stared after those disappearing clouds of dust, eased the collar about his throat. "I don't know whether I like that or not," he said. The woman called Sybil gave her brief hard laugh. "If I were that young woman I'd get all I could out of the chase but avoid the consequences. What's got into Philip Brooke, anyway?" "At the moment I can only hope," said Maurice, "but I'm going to find out. And he walked quickly down the road to his car.

Jenny's lungs were bursting, speed whipped up her hair, chilled the sweat that coursed down her spine. A glance over her shoulder showed Philip almost at her pony's heels, his face dark and furious as he shouted to her to pull in. Sensitive to the touch of heel-leather, the pony sped on. She was so much lighter than Philip that on polo ponies she had an advantage. She thought deliriously that she could go on like this for ever. But Philip, apparently, thought otherwise. He drew level. "Pull in, you maniac!" "Try to make me!" she flung at him, and bent closer to the flying mane. His hand shot out for the rein. To avoid him she pulled to one side, and for nightmarish seconds the pony was again on its hind legs, pawing at the trunk of a tree. She was whipped out of the saddle, held suspended by an arm that felt like steel and deposited none too gently on the grass. Philip was beside her, his breathing hardly slower but much heavier than her own, his expression so violent that she wouldn't have been surprised at anything he might do. In fact, he took her shoulders and

shook her. But somehow the punishment misfired, and he was holding her instead. "Are you hurt?" he was saying in thick, unfamiliar tones. "Are you hurt, Jenny?" "No, I'm all right," she answered, muffled. "Why did you defy me like that? You know I wouldn't stand for it." She gulped against his shirt. "I try so hard to get away from you and I can't!" "That's right, you can't. So you may as well give in." He let her go. "Here's a car—it's probably Maurice. You'd better step out of those ridiculous slacks." Jenny obeyed him; she was too distraught to do otherwise. When Maurice got out of his car she was smoothing the skirt of her blue frock and pushing back her hair. She gave him a smile that she knew must be ghastly. Philip had walked a few paces away, to collect the ponies, and Maurice waited till he was near before saying: "I didn't know whether to follow or send an ambulance. You ride much better than I thought, Jenny." "Better than she knew herself," commented Philip a little harshly. "Even so, she could easily have broken bones out there on the field. Get into the car, Jenny." "Going back to the hotel?" asked Maurice politely. Philip nodded. "In your bus, if you don't mind. You can take the horses to the paddock and get a lift into town."

Maurice protested. "I'm not wearing race track kit." "I wasn't, either," said Philip off-handedly. "You might bring my jacket along. I'll pick it up at your bungalow." If there had been less electricity in the air, Maurice might have said more. With some restraint he opened the car door and saw Jenny seated, gave Philip an exasperated glance across the top of the car. "She's a bit sticky in second gear," he said with a sigh, "needs adjusting." Philip let in the clutch and the car moved off. Jenny didn't look back to see how Maurice was managing; she did not even think of Maurice. She wanted to speak ordinarily to Philip, to give him some rational explanation of the desire to ride a polo pony on the field. But there was something about him that both frightened and set her pulses jumping. Daring and violence in him she understood; this uncanny quietness, the look of rigid control at his mouth, the tensing of his fingers on the wheel, were part of a force in him that was stronger than anyone could possibly guess. She was hardly aware of the spice gardens and small pineapple plantations, and it was with a small sense of shock that she saw the hotel some time later. They had not exchanged a single word, yet the streets and people had drifted by unnoticed. Philip went with her into the vestibule, collected the keys and took her to the lift. At her floor he got out with her, he opened her bedroom door and went straight over to the telephone. "Service?" he said. "Send up whisky, water and ice. Two glasses." The receiver snapped back into position and he turned about, glanced briefly at the open suitcase, looked at Jenny. She had come a little way inside the door, and stood grasping the back of a chair.

She was pale, and the short hair was all over the place from the wind. "I . . . I'm leaving the hotel," she said. "So I was told. The reception clerk was communicative when I came in this afternoon." "But . . . why should he tell you?" "He's the type to draw conclusions. You came here with me and he assumed I'd be interested." He pushed his hands into the pockets of the light trousers, walked across to the balcony door and stood looking out. Jenny said, "I suppose he also told you I'd gone out with Maurice?" "Yes," 'without turning, "but he didn't know where you'd gone. I wouldn't have known where you were if Maurice hadn't telephoned from the polo ground." "Maurice . . . telephoned?" "He thought I ought to know that you were planning to risk your neck. He felt responsible." His voice altered. "Men do feel responsible for you, Jenny. It's probably the sense of protection that you most appeal to in the male." "If you're going to be insufferable . . ." A waiter entered softly. Philip signed the chit, poured whisky into each glass, filled up one with ice and water and gave it to her. It tasted horrible, but she swallowed a mouthful. He tried his own drink, set it down beside hers on the writing table.

He said, "When I heard that you were planning to leave this evening I decided to come here to your room and wait for you. I had the absurd notion that in spite of last night you knew as well as I did that we still had a good deal to say to each other. I was wrong, though. You don't feel you have a thing to say to me, do you?" Her shoulders lifted helplessly. "We've talked so much, at different times." "Very little, actually, since we've been in Singapore." "But. . . what is there to say? You go tomorrow morning -" "I don't." She pulled her dry lower lip between her teeth, let it go. "Have you changed your mind?" "I hadn't booked to go tomorrow. I merely told you I'd been offered a seat on the plane." "But you let me think you were leaving!" "Yes, but it didn't do any good. If possible, I think it weighed with you in the other direction. You wanted to think I was going to France, that if I couldn't have Delice I'd find someone else, so for the time being I played along. You made me so angry last night, Jenny. . . ." He stopped, squared his shoulders as though to re-exert control, and asked, "Where were you going from here?" "To a less expensive hotel." "Is that all? Have you written any letters to Boekarta?" "Just one—to Lewis." She found her words hurrying. "He wanted a definite answer about . . . about marriage. I told him that I hoped he

would marry someone else." If he makes a sarcastic reply, she thought faintly, I shall scream! But he took his time about replying, then spoke evenly. 'That was sensible. And now we'll have the reason for the recklessness this afternoon. Maurice said you took a dare and wouldn't be dissuaded. He said you looked pale and unhappy, that he was scared what might happen if you got in among that horsey crowd on the turf. I dropped the telephone and went straight out to get a taxi. I knew Maurice couldn't stop you doing something you'd set your mind to, and I was terrified I'd be too late. I've never felt so utterly helpless in my life!" "Oh," she said huskily. "I'm sorry." "Why did you take up that woman's challenge?" She gestured. "I don't know. I thought it would make me feel more . . . more myself." "Why weren't you feeling yourself?" he demanded. "I must know, Jenny!" Her heart was beating much too fast and blood drummed in her ears. "What do you want me to say?" "Look at me, brownie." She knew the little name had slipped out without his being aware of it. She raised her head, saw a leaping darkness in the sea-green eyes, felt her hands gripping in upon themselves. Instinctively, she backed a step. "The truth, Jenny," he said urgently. "What made you feel so abnormal? Was it what you heard from Lewis Garve?"

"No. Oh, no! Lewis has never meant much to me." "I believe that's true, yet sometimes . . ." He considered her closely. "Cast your mind back to when your knee was bad, at the beach. Do you remember calling me Lewis the day you collapsed?" "No!" She stared at him. "I couldn't possibly have done that." "But you did. It made me feel the whole damn world was falling apart. You'd given me a few jolts before, but none like that." He paused. "I haven't felt quite the same ever since." "I couldn't have known what I was saying. I do recall thinking that Lewis had treated a sprained knee for me last year, but . . ." She looked at him. "Why are we going over all this?" "Because it can't be postponed any longer. I thought it might take a week before we got round to it, but you've hastened things, Jenny, in the way you have." He moved to the telephone, lifted it and spoke. "Miss Manson is not leaving, after all. She'll be requiring this room for a few days longer." Jenny did not protest. She turned, trembling, to the suitcase which stood open on the luggage stool, smoothed her stocking sachet and flicked over the corner of a lacy white garment. She felt Philip come behind her, his touch on her bare upper arms, and as his lips found the curve of her neck her shoulders went rigid. "Don't," she choked. "I won't be your next affair!" "For Pete's sake forget that word." He spoke indistinctly, close to her cheek. "You belong to me, Jenny. Back there at Tamarisk Bay you became part of me, and I can't possibly get along without you. You may not have seen it happening but 1 made you mine in a thousand ways. We've been closer than any engaged couple ever is, and I can't wait for us to be closer still. I know I hurt you several

times, but I had to do it. It was a delightful but hellish situation!" Persuasively, he turned her to face him. "Don't shake so, my sweet. Just put your arms round my neck as you did the night of the storm. But for pity's sake don't cry!" Jenny pressed against him for a moment, with her hands clenched at her sides. Then she yielded to a wild, joyous freedom, slipped her arms about his shoulders and gave him her lips. A fiery delight engulfed her, lasted an eternity. "I knew it could be like this," he said thickly, at last. "You'll never know what I went through, warding it off." "But why did you?" "What else could I do? Placed as we were, I couldn't possibly have made love to you. .At first there didn't seem to be much danger because you were entirely unaffected. Then I made the mistake of kissing you." "Because I was upset," she nodded, against his chin. "I did it almost without thinking, and paid for it with a sleepless night. Even unresponsive, your lips were very sweet, Jenny. It seems almost silly now, but I heard you strike a match in the middle of that night, and I was terribly afraid I'd either frightened you or roused some sort of emotion." "So you placed the photograph of your horrid Delice where I couldn't miss it!" She pushed away from him, said witheringly. "Toujours a toi, cher Philippe!" "She was my only weapon against you, and I had to use her for all I was worth. I must tell you about Delice, some time." "You'll tell me now! I abhor the creature."

He laughed, enjoying her fierceness. "She's not as bad as that. She was good fun, a bit flattered because she wasn't used to Englishmen—that's why she wrote to me sometimes, and sent me the photograph. I didn't even know I had it in my wallet till I looked out my papers on the plane. Afterwards, I was darned glad I did have it." "You were going to her in Paris!" "Oh, no. I told you I was going to friends, and that was true. It was through them that I met her, and I'm not going to pretend I wouldn't have seen her again. But as you knew she's going to marry her cousin. It was because she disliked the marriage arranged for her years ago with this man that she let herself fall a little in love with me, but in spite of those chic good looks, Delice is conventional. Much more conventional than you, brownie! She'll make the man a virtuous wife." "She looks exciting," said Jenny dubiously. "Maybe she is; I never tested her in her own surroundings." He smiled teasingly. "But I've tested you in yours, and been pretty drastically tried myself. Jenny, you've done appalling things to me, and the trouble is I've got to forgive you because I love you." "Do you really love me, Philip?" she asked tremulously. "I've been in such a maze and so uncertain that I'm afraid you'll have to tell me often before I'll believe it." He lifted her chin, smiled into the hazel eyes. "Darling, your the only girl I've ever had to guard myself against. "I started right at the beginning, scoffing at you when you used cosmetics, because I didn't want to be reminded you were a woman. I thought it was a brainwave to put you in boy's shorts, then when you loped about on long golden legs I wasn't so sure. When things went well between us

you were so glowing and fresh, so wide awake to everything going on around us. You had such a lot to give to life—to me. And, lord, how I wanted it!" Jenny let out a sigh that was half nostalgic. "Some of those days were good, weren't they? Until the missionary turned up!" He laughed. "How I remember that night under the stars, with you rolled tight against the wall. I wondered whether, if he'd been a minister, I'd have asked him to marry us—but decided I wouldn't have taken the risk. When you're the only man around it's not difficult to make a woman believe she's in love with you, and I definitely didn't hanker for that kind of love. On the whole, I did what was best- for both of us, but you gave me some grim moments!" He stopped, moved slightly away from her and got out his cigarette case. The smiling charm had receded, given way to a faint hardness in his expression. Hypersensitive to the change of mood, Jenny closed the lid of the suitcase, accepted one of the cigarettes and took a slow pace or two towards the balcony. "You're thinking about Ben's first call at the beach, aren't you?" she said quietly. "I can be truthful about it now. I wouldn't sail with him because . . . because I couldn't leave you. I thought it all over for hours and hours, and I couldn't see how to tell you he'd been at the beach without revealing the sort of idiot I'd become. It was on my conscience for days—in a way it still is— but I hated the idea of lying about my reasons for staying and probably being seen through and mocked at. So you see how unimportant the people are that one drivels about when one's light-headed." "I'll get over it," he said. "You didn't have to tour Singapore with the chap!"

"But I had to do something. I thought you were going to get your clothes together and catch a plane, and I'd have gone mad just dawdling around the hotel. It wouldn't have been quite so unbearable if you hadn't persisted in reminding me that we'd never forget each other—as if I didn't know!" He came and stood beside her, took her cigarette suddenly, and placed it with his own in the bedside ashtray. He grasped both her wrists between his hands. "We'll talk over those weeks on the beach for years to come. We'll remember the laughs and the frustrations, the scares and even, perhaps, the occasional bitterness. We'll always be grateful for it all, Jenny, because we'll have had something rare. And now let's be practical. Will you mind, awfully, being married in Singapore?" A liquid brightness shone in her eyes. "It doesn't matter where, Philip!" "This will surprise you. I've already applied for a licence—that's how sure I was I'd never let you go. We can be married in a few days, and I suggest we borrow Maurice's bungalow for a week. It's in a good spot above the sea and he'll be glad to turn out into a hotel for us. We can do with being alone." She gave a brief laugh. "We've only been among people for a couple of days!" "It's been like years. Well, when we've become accustomed to the fact that I don't have to go out and sleep on the beach every night," he grinned at her high color, "we'll go to England and present ourselves gravely to your brother, and having done our duty we'll roam for three months." "Taking in Paris?"

"Ever been there?" And when she had shaken her head: "Very well, we'll take in Paris. I actually bought that jade figurine for my friend's wife—she collects anything in jade—and she may as well have it. My friends will dote on you—and you'll love Paris, and fitting yourself up with French clothes." More seriously he added, "And I hope you're going to like Kinoi." "I shall adore any place with you!" "That's as it should be," he said, and took her into his arms. It was quite some time later that she murmured, "I'll have to cancel the other hotel booking. And, Philip . . . could we go out somewhere for dinner, so that we don't have to face all those people downstairs?" "We are going out," he said, gently mocking. "We're going to Maurice's party. He still thinks I'm off on the morning plane." "I ... I don't somehow think he does. He gave you the queerest look when you commandeered his car." "Good old Maurice. When he hears our news he'll dance a hornpipe. Want me to clear out while you change?" "You'll have to change, too." "So I will. We'll get to Maurice's early, before the others. I think we owe him that." He looked at her, and his fingers tightened over the fine bones of her shoulders. "I love you desperately, my honeybrown darling, and I'll keep you in love with me for the rest of my life." Jenny's gaze at him was soft and clear. Years with Philip lay ahead, years that would be secure yet spiced with adventure. Yes,

adventure; because with Philip she was bound to discover new depths of passion and loving, and there was all the world to share! And whatever might come in the future, neither would ever forget one moment of those strange, lovely, tormenting weeks at Tamarisk Bay. THE END