Only half past four! With a
suppressed groan he dropped it back and sat down beside the table. Half-
past four! Presently he roused himself. He would write to his sister
Jemima. He always wrote to her when he was miserable. She was his safety-
valve. He forgot her when he was happy; but he used her when he was
wretched.
He took out ink and paper. There was a family crest and motto on the
latter, for the Roses since coming to the colony had discovered that they
were of distinguished lineage. Old Rose himself, an honest English farmer,
knew nothing of his noble descent; but his wife and daughter knew--
especially his daughter. There were Roses in England who kept a park and
dated from the Conquest. So the colonial "Rose Farm" became "Rose Manor"
in remembrance of the ancestral domain, and the claim of the Roses to noble
blood was established--in their own minds at least.
Gregory took up one of the white, crested sheets; but on deeper reflection
he determined to take a pink one, as more suitable to the state of his
feelings. He began:
"Kopje Alone,
"Monday afternoon.
"My Dear Jemima--"
Then he looked up into the little glass opposite. It was a youthful face
reflected there, with curling brown beard and hair; but in the dark blue
eyes there was a look of languid longing that touched him.
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