"They shall
not be forgotten," I answered, with a quiet smile at this pretty little
evidence of fatherly feeling. I rode off. It was early morning, before
the heat of the day began. Hilda accompanied me part of the way on her
bicycle. She was going to the other young farm, some eight miles off,
across the red-brown plateau, where she gave lessons daily to the
ten-year old daughter of an English settler. It was a labour of love;
for settlers in Rhodesia cannot afford to pay for what are beautifully
described as "finishing governesses"; but Hilda was of the sort who
cannot eat the bread of idleness. She had to justify herself to her kind
by finding some work to do which should vindicate her existence.
I parted from her at a point on the monotonous plain where one rubbly
road branched off from another. Then I jogged on in the full morning sun
over that scorching plain of loose red sand all the way to Salisbury.
Not a green leaf or a fresh flower anywhere. The eye ached at the hot
glare of the reflected sunlight from the sandy level.
My business detained me several hours in the half-built town, with its
flaunting stores and its rough new offices; it was not till towards
afternoon that I could get away again on my sorrel, across the blazing
plain once more to Klaas's.
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