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Back on the boat they had a late lunch and soon afterwards again put to sea. Another night in the hammock, a sunrise full of golden glory, and a morning on deck with an uncommunicative Julian. Flying-fish and exotic sea birds, boatloads of chocolate-skinned fishermen who shouted and gesticulated, the ocean a molten reflection of the sky. At noon they approached Libreville, and Phil recognized the smart coaster which had carried her away from Valeira.

“There’s your bus home,” said Julian. “Tell the skipper that friends brought you down from Nigeria. I hadn’t better come ashore.”

“Will I have time to buy clothes?”

He hesitated. ‘The customs people might be awkward as you’ve no visa, and there’s always the danger of other unpleasantness.”

“I thought the French were famous for their chivalry.”

“Chivalry’s a novel way of putting it,” he said drily. ‘Transfer straight to the other ship and I’ll try to get a couple of dresses for you in Lagos. What size?”

“Thirty-four hip.” .

The boat had stopped and a dinghy was being lowered. Phil straightened from the deck rail.

“It’s all gone like clockwork. Thank you, Julian.”

Paternally, he patted her head. “I’ll be back in three days. Be careful what you say to Matt and don’t think too much. So long, little one.”

Back on the island her short absence assumed a shroud of unreality. Her resolve to make Julian love her now seemed the uttermost edge of childishness and absurdity. He was thirty-five, and so mercilessly uninterested in women that the marriage had left little imprint on his ego. Except when the mails came in he would be able to forget it, whereas she could not help but be palpitatingly aware of it day and night. Especially at night, when a tropical hush pressed up around the clearing and she lay perspiring inside her net.

She admitted to herself that for some time her last waking thought had been of Julian; not so much a thought as a vain, heartshaking need whose meaning was only now becoming plain. What wouldn’t she give to own a few more years and a corresponding degree of experience!

When Matt came up to see how she was faring he told her that Drew was having the devil of a time with the shipping. The other day he had discovered that one of the holds leaked, and had ordered the usual cementing up.

“The skipper replied that he wasn’t taking orders from a so-and-so whippet and caulked with tar. He loaded and got out This morning the
Bassington
put in. She was handled by the shore boys like a vessel half her size and poked a chunk out of the jetty. Drew’s blathering about sabotage.”

“Oh, Matt! Could it be?”

“Could be and probably is. Since Caswell took over, the ships have been searched on arrival . . . he’s even gone over them himself in his zeal to put an end to smuggling.”

“What sort of smuggling?”

“Drugs and liquor for the natives. The skippers used to make a packet out of it, so of course they’re sore, and the Africans are not too happy, either.” He sighed and added, “I’m out of pocket myself since the smuggling stopped.”

“Matt! Were you in it?”

“They had to have a middleman, lovey,” he said reasonably. “But I’m not grousing. The trouble is, Julian’s making a white man out of me, and I can’t say I take to it”

Late the following day Julian came back. Phil stood at her window hoping his head would turn her way, that he would spare her at least a nod. But doubtless even in the dark he had detected renovations to the jetty, and shot a few enquiries. For his brows were ominously straight, his whole expression stem. He strode into his house and she guessed he had demanded explanations, for later Drew and Roger came over on mules, and there was no free-and-easy drinking on the veranda.

Towards noon next morning a boy brought Phil a box containing two dresses, one apple green and the other white. His master was away all day at the plantation boundary, but perhaps the missus would come for drinks tonight?

All day her chest had a painful hollow, and Manoela’s curry and rice dinner was wasted. Phil wore the new green dress and pressed a fist hard over her pounding heart as she made her way to the house. But she could have economized on the qualms.

At a table in Julian’s veranda sat three men: Matt Bryson, the captain of the
Bassington
and Drew. From the doorway Julian gave her an appraising but impersonal smile.

“Sit down, Phil.” Her name on his lips filled her with a strange bitterness. “I thought you might like to meet Captain Fawcett. It’s not improbable that you’ll be making a journey with him some time.”

Conventionally, she smiled back and took a low canvas chair near the rail. Julian shoved another one forward and sank into it, stretching his legs so that his shoe rested close to her sandal; his bare brown knees were near enough to be reached, had she dared to extend a hand.

After the others had contributed anecdotes, Julian glanced at Phil.

“They tell me you’ve been sailing. How did it feel to set foot on the mainland?”

Wishing it were possible to dislodge his steely composure, she answered: “Nightmarish. I was far happier at sea.”

“The mainland does that to me, too,” Matt submitted. “Last time I visited Lagos the women were wearing skirts above their knees and frying-pan hats. They fell in and out of marriage quicker than a fly in and out of a bowl of sugar.”

“The kind
you
mixed with, Matt,” she told him.

A mocking glint in his eyes, Julian said: “Today they consider marriage superfluous except as a meal ticket. Another drink, Captain?”

AMINO ASTARTES brought his bride to Valeira in style. Their ship, a sleek white yacht belonging to one of Rodrigo’s influential friends in Lisbon, flew bunting and an assortment of flags. She came in close to the British plantation, so that from the cliff and the waterfront the young Portuguese and his pretty olive-skinned wife could be seen smiling and waving from beneath a giant multicoloured umbrella.

The young senhora was to be allowed a week in which to accustom herself to the heat and her in-laws before the wedding celebrations, which were scheduled to last three days. Rumour whispered that already the Novada harbour was jammed with the private craft of guests from Spain and Portugal, and that a genuine bullfight was being arranged.

All five of the English were invited, but Julian intended to send his apologies. Someone must stay on the plantation and at present he preferred it to be himself. Though Matt distrusted the sea, he had decided to make the run in his own little motor vessel, and Phil could go along if she liked.

Drew and Roger were still dourly discussing modes of travel when the white yacht steamed back into the bay, and a lithe young man in a tussore suit and beige sombrero, his magenta tie floating in the breeze, came ashore in a rowing-boat. He was met by a Portuguese official and saluted by a hastily summoned handful of the militia. A car carried him through the bush to the plantation.

Phil had just risen from an after-lunch siesta when she saw the arrival of the car from her convenient window, and guessed at once that the dark-complexioned visitor was Tome, the younger son of the owner of the Novada.

“Manoela,” she called.

The servant appeared from the outhouse where she had been rinsing the zinc bath.

“Manoela, there is a guest at the house. Tell Sam to offer him a drink and to send for the master. Explain that I will come shortly.”

She found Tome Astartes in Julian’s living-room, his head critically on one side as he surveyed the bare surfaces of the furniture. His glass was already empty.

Tomé gazed at her. He gazed and gazed. Then: “Pardon, senhorita,” he exclaimed. “I heard from my father that you are beautiful, but not how beautiful! I am Tome Astartes.”

“So I guessed. We were not expecting you.”

“No. It is still three days to the festa, but my father sent me to assure his English guests how welcome they are, and to offer them the yacht as transport.”

“Senhor Astartes is always thoughtful and kind.”

Tome had come forward. His eyes dark and devouring, he looked down at her; not far down, for his height was but average, yet it was sufficiently above hers to admit a sense of masculine superiority.

“My father admires you very much, and I, senhorita, have longed to make your acquaintance. To think that you are on the island so long and we have never met!”

“There is a mountain between us. Won’t you sit down? Mr. Caswell will not be long.”

But Julian was in no apparent hurry. For an hour Tome talked in the agreeable manner of the educated Latin.

Julian surprised them in the middle of a gust of laughter. Underneath his suave greeting Phil detected displeasure, and she remembered his dislike of Rodrigo.

She said, “Now Mr. Caswell has come I’ll go back to my wooden house.”

“But you do not remain always in the cabin? I shall see you again this evening and tomorrow?” Tome demanded anxiously.

“You are staying till we all go back in the yacht?”

“If Senhor Caswell can accommodate me.”

“Of course.” Julian’s acquiescence was firm but without cordiality. “I will arrange a little party for tonight.”

“Oh, but I was hoping you would consent to have dinner on the ship,” Tome implored. “She is equipped and staffed. It would be very informal, but quite delightful. Senhorita, I command it!”

Julian shrugged. “Dine with us tomorrow, then.”

Phil moved to the door and Tome followed and bowed, displaying a crown of brilliantined black curls.

“Till seven, senhorita. Ha?”

Dinner on the yacht yielded its excitements. The captain brought his pet chimpanzee to the table and fed him with bananas and ground nuts. Phil, seated between Tomé and Matt, fascinatedly watched the thing hug his master and mouth the bristly cheek before he was led back to his chain.

Toast followed toast. Amino and Carlotta; Rodrigo; the English guests and Portugal. When an adjournment to the deck was suggested Matt and the captain stayed below to tap a fresh bottle of Scotch.

Tome took Phil to the rail. Lights glimmered on the waterfront. The sea washed in crystal sheets over the beach, and along there past the houses a camp fire cast a triangle of flame over the waters. In the darkness one could always locate the natives by their fires. By night, Phil loved this hot, oppressive island for itself. While the cruel sun blazed and blanketed everything with steam, she tolerated it to be near Julian.

Tomé was saying: “The young overseer, Crawford, has been glaring at me. Is he annoyed that I should show more daring than he? Senhor Caswell also has a disagreeable look. I must not cross him, for is he not your guardian? Is it not of him that I must request permission to court you?” Phil smiled. “It is, but it’s not necessary to approach him. I would like to be your friend, senhor, but nothing closer.”

He gave a pleased and comprehending laugh. “You are shy, and I adore shyness. I adore all of you, senhorita . . . your fair skin, your hair as rich and soft as silk, your smoky voice. Believe me—”

“I certainly shan’t. If you continue now you will have nothing left to say tomorrow and the day after.”

“I shall repeat it all in different words, for the rest of my life!”

This impassioned utterance seemed to echo along the deck. As, with studious casualness, the three Englishmen closed in upon them, Phil grinned to herself. Poor Tome had no weapon against this bastion of British impassiveness. The rest of the evening had a flavour all its own, and Phil travelled home in the back of Julian’s car feeling sleepy but exhilarated. It was good to be liked and protected, and to have fun.

Overnight, Tomé recovered his enthusiasm for the chase, and soon after breakfast he knocked politely on Phil’s door and begged her to show him the lagoon and—dare he ask it?—to bathe with him. He swam well and he showed off. With what he deemed the
blase
manner peculiar to the English, he offered her a cigarette and lit it for her, and produced a flask of brandy from his robe pocket.

In contrast to the highly flavoured dinner on the yacht, the meal which Julian ordered his boys to prepare was more nourishing than tasty. Stewed chickens of the scrawny West African type, tinned vegetables, a mixture of raw and tinned fruits, soft cheese and salt biscuits. Phil enjoyed it, for was she not placed opposite Julian so that occasionally they exchanged glances?

The constraint in the atmosphere did not entirely pass her by. She knew that Roger still prickled from a onesided argument with Julian over the mishandling of the
Bassington
, and that Tome’s composure rocked with the effort of eating food he loathed in the company of men he abhorred. Even Matt’s mien was sober, as though he had promised his liver an easy passage this evening. But these things were external to the bitter-sweetness of the secret she shared with Julian ... to which neither ever referred.

“My father is hoping that I, too, will soon have a wife,” Tome said, adding artlessly: “When his first grandson arrives he will divide the plantation and retire to Lisbon. Amino will live in the casa, and I”—he almost peacocked —“will build a new villa for my own family.”

No one commented, but Matt gulped his coffee and took a cheroot from his case. The others lit cigarettes, and Tome was asked what time tomorrow he wished to leave.

“We will go early, if it is convenient,” the young man answered eagerly. “I am unwilling that we should miss the canoe races in the afternoon. I myself wish to compete.” Politely he looked at Julian. “My father will greatly regret, senhor, that you are unable to be of our party, though he will comprehend your difficulties. It is not as if you
owned
this plantation and could afford to take chances.”

“Exactly,” said Julian coolly. “That is why I extracted a promise from you that a boat would bring back my overseers at the end of four days.”

“Of course, senhor. But I hope the time limit will not also restrict the senhorita? She will be well looked after and amply chaperoned. My mother herself will watch over her as if she were a daughter.”