"
"Just the same, what if there were something wrong? We might go and
see."
"Nonsense!" Val snapped. "You heard what Charity said about going into
the swamp alone. And there is nothing to worry about anyway. Come on,
let's change. And then I have something to show you."
"What?" she demanded.
"Wait and see." His ruse had succeeded. She was no longer looking
swampward with that gleam of purpose in her eye.
"Come on then," she said, prodding him into action.
Val changed slowly. If one didn't care about mucking around in the
garden, as Ricky seemed to delight in doing, there was so little in the
way of occupation. He thought of the days as they spread before him. A
little riding, a great amount of casual reading and--what else? Was the
South "getting" him as the tropics are supposed to "get" the
Northerners?
That unlucky meeting with a mountaintop had effectively despoiled him of
his one ambition. Soldiers with game legs are not wanted. He couldn't
paint like Charity, he couldn't spin yarns like Rupert, he possessed a
mind too inaccurate to cope with the intricacies of any science. And as
a business man he would probably be a good street cleaner.
What was left? Well, the surprise he had promised Ricky might cover the
problem. As he reached for a certain black note-book, someone knocked on
his door.
"Mistuh Val, wheah's Miss 'Chanda? She ain't up heah an' Ah wan's to--"
Lucy stood in the hall.
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