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Miss Bibby had reached the chronicle of Hugh Kinross's "endearing little eccentricities." A small pile of neatly written sheets lay to the right of her. In front of her lay more sheets, scored through, corrected, polished, until Flaubert himself would have been satisfied with the labour bestowed.
As Sheldon rode about the plantation, acknowledging to himself the comfort and convenience of a horse and wondering why he had not thought of getting one himself, he pondered the various improvements for which Joan was responsible the splendid Poonga-Poonga recruits; the fruits and vegetables; the Martha herself, snatched from the sea for a song and earning money hand over fist despite old Kinross's slow and safe method of running her; and Berande, once more financially secure, approaching each day nearer the dividend-paying time, and growing each day as the black toilers cleared the bush, cut the cane-grass, and planted more cocoanut palms.
She was essaying, indeed, an impossible task trying to couch Hugh Kinross's eccentricities in dignified English prose. And the shoes, at least, absolutely refused to be so treated; they seemed to stand out from the article just as prominently as they had stood out among the furniture of his room. Miss Bibby sighed despairingly the strain and the loss of sleep were telling upon her.
Pauline wheeled "Trike" out to the foot of the steps, Lynn rushed for the ever lost boy-hat, Muffie flew to pick a stone up from the path before the little wheel. Then a flash of irresistible humour shone in Kate Kinross's eyes. "Max," she said with exceeding suddenness, "what are you sorry for?" Max mounted his machine from behind and settled himself in his saddle.
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