Then a tall man of about thirty years of age, who was smoking a cigar,
strolled up to her. At his coming she moved a little as though to make
room for him beside her, and there was something in the motion which,
had anyone been there to observe it, might have suggested that these two
were upon terms of friendship, or still greater intimacy. For a moment
he hesitated, and while he did so an expression of doubt, of distress
even, gathered on his face. It was as though he understood that a great
deal depended on whether he accepted or declined that gentle invitation,
and knew not which to do.
Indeed, much did depend upon it, no less than the destinies of both of
them. If Robert Seymour had gone by to finish his cigar in solitude, why
then this story would have had a very different ending; or, rather, who
can say how it might have ended? The dread, foredoomed event with which
that night was big would have come to its awful birth leaving certain
words unspoken. Violent separation must have ensued, and even if both of
them had survived the terror, what prospect was there that their lives
would again have crossed each other in that wide Africa?
But it was not so fated, for just as he put his foot forward to continue
his march Benita spoke in her low and pleasant voice.
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