III.

But while Mr Letts was quoting Thomas Moore’s line—in a corrupt form—to the Commissioner, Dr Koomadhi was accepting, with a certain amount of dignity, the greeting which was extended to him by Miss Hope, the Commissioner’s daughter, in the drawing-room. She had been trying over some songs which had just arrived from England. Two of them were of a high colour of sentimentalism, another belonged to that form of poetic composition known as a coon song. It had a banjo obbligato; but the pianoforte accompaniment of itself gave more than a suggestion of the twanging of strings and the banging of a tambourine. Had Dr Koomadhi arrived a few minutes sooner it would have been his privilege to hear Gertrude Hope chant the chorus—

“Don’t you belieb un, Massa John,

Jes’ winkie mid y o’ eye,

Kick up yo’ heels to de gasalier—

Say, how am dat for high?”

But Gertrude had, after singing the melody, pushed the copy under a pile of music, and had risen from the piano to receive her visitor, at the same time ringing for tea.

He apologised for interrupting her at the piano.

“If I had only known that you were singing, I should certainly have—well, not exactly, stayed away; no, I should have come sooner, and remained a worshipper in the outer court.”

“Oh, I wasn’t singing—not regularly singing,” said she, with a laugh. “Trying over stupid songs about lovers’ partings is not singing, Dr Koomadhi.”

“Lovers’ partings?” said he. “They seem particularly well adapted to lyrical treatment.”

“The songs at any rate are heart-breaking,” said she.

“They represent the most acute stage of the lovers’ feelings, then?” said he.

“I daresay. I suppose there are degrees of feelings even of lovers.”

“I’m sure of it, Miss Hope.”

He was seated in a wicker chair; she had thrown herself into another—a seat that gave her the appearance of lying in a hammock. He scanned her from her white forehead down to the dainty feet that crossed one another on the sloping support of cane-work. She would have been looked on as a very pretty girl in a London drawing-room; and even a girl who would be regarded as commonplace there would pass as a marvel of loveliness on the West Coast of Africa.

“Yes,” continued Dr Koomadhi, “I’m sure there are degrees of feeling even among lovers.”

“You are a doctor, and so doubtless have had many opportunities of diagnosing the disease in all its stages,” said she.

“Yes, I am a doctor,” said he. “I am also a man. I have felt. I feel.”

She gave another laugh.

“A complete conjugation of the verb,” said she. “Past and present tenses. How about the future?”

There was only a little pause before he said—

“The future is in your hands, Miss Hope. I have come here to-day to tell you that I have never loved any one in all my life but you, and to ask you if you will marry me.”

There was now a long pause—so long that he became hopeful of her answer. Then he saw the blank look that was upon her face change—he saw the flush that came over her white face when she had had time to realise the import of his words.

She started up, and at the same instant the baboon came in front of the window and raised his right hand to the salute.

“You are mad—mad!” she said, in a whisper that had something fierce about it. Then she lay back in her chair with a laugh. “I marry you—you. I should as soon marry——”

She had pointed to the baboon before she had checked herself.

“You would as soon marry the baboon as me?” said he in a low and laboured voice.

“I did not say that, although—Dr Koomadhi, what you have told me has given me a shock—such a shock as I have never had before. I am not myself—if I said anything hurtful to you I know that you will attribute it to the shock—I ask your pardon—sincerely—humbly. I never thought it possible that you—you—oh, you must have been mad! You——”

“Give me a cup of tea, my dearest, if you don’t want to see me perish before your eyes.” The words came from outside a window behind Dr Koomadhi, and in another second a man had entered from the verandah, and had given a low whistle on perceiving that Miss Hope had a visitor.

“Come along,” said Miss Hope, when she had drawn a deep breath—“Come along and be introduced to Dr Koomadhi. You have often heard of Dr Koomadhi, I’m sure, Dick. Dr Koomadhi, this is Major Minton.”

“How do you do?” said the stranger, giving his hand to the doctor. “I’m glad to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you, and how clever you are.”

“You flatter me,” said Dr Koomadhi, shaking hands with the new-comer. “I must now rush away, Miss Hope,” he added. “I only called to tell your father that I had forwarded some reports by the Penguin.”

“Jolly old tub, the Penguin—glad I’ve seen the last of her,” said Major Minton.

“Major Minton arrived by the Penguin this morning,” said Gertrude. “Must you really go away, Dr Koomadhi?”

“Not even the prospect of a cup of your tea would make me swerve from the path of duty, Miss Hope,” said the doctor, with a smile so chastened as to be deprived of all its Ethiopian character.

He shook hands gracefully with her and Major Minton, and passed out by the verandah, the baboon standing to one side and solemnly saluting. The Major was the only one who laughed, and his laugh was a roar.