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always present at parties of this sort, and who put Ralph out. He
began to think he had vastly underrated the intelligence of his public.
    ‘I have been thinking of
changing my style. I’ve been thinking of writing a tragedy.’
    ‘Good Lord,’ said the
retired brigadier whom he had addressed, ‘you don’t want to do that.’
    Everyone said the same.
    Another thing everyone
said was, ‘Why don’t you settle here?’ or ‘Why don’t you take a place and live
here for part of the year? It’s the only way to avoid the heavy taxes.
    At the Club he had met
Michael Casse who had come up to the Capital to see the Land Bank about a loan.
    ‘My wife adores your
books,’ said Michael. He giggled. Ralph wondered for a moment if Michael was a
critic.
    ‘We have a mutual
friend,’ said Michael, ‘or rather had. Daphne du Toit. I went to her
funeral.’ He giggled.
    ‘The reason I’ve come
out here is to see her grave,’ said Ralph defensively. ‘And to talk to her
uncle.’
    ‘Got a car?’ said
Michael. ‘If not I’ll drive you down. I live near them.’ Ralph realized that
Michael’s giggle was a nervous tic.
    ‘I might settle in the
Colony — seven months in the year, you know,’ he confided.
    ‘There’s a nice place
near us,’ said Michael. ‘It’s coming up for sale soon.
    Ralph had been two
months in the Colony, had toured the country, had been shown all the
interesting spots, and met the enjoyable people, when at last he accepted
Michael’s invitation to stay at his farm.
    ‘Are you writing
anything at the moment?’ said Michael’s wife.
    ‘No, but I’m collecting
material.’
    ‘Oh, will it be about
the Colony?’
    ‘It’s difficult to say.’
    He was not sure now that
the Daphne idea would be as appealing as he had thought. He could not envisage
his public, especially that section which he had recently met at dose quarters,
appreciating such a theme.
    Michael showed him over
the farm which was up for sale. Ralph said he would almost certainly take it.
    They went to see Chakata
and Ralph spoke of Daphne. Chakata said, ‘Why didn’t she settle down in
England? Why did she come back?’
    ‘I suppose she wanted
to,’ said Michael, and giggled.
    Chakata spoke of his
rheumatism. He hobbled out on the stoep and called for drinks. As they
followed, Ralph noticed a lanky old man seated in the corner, muttering to
himself.
    He inquired of Chakata. ‘Is
that Mr Tuys? Daphne told me about Mr Tuys.’
    Chakata said, ‘Bad year
for maize. I shan’t live long.’
    Michael drove Ralph down
to the cemetery. His wife had suggested:
    ‘Leave him alone for a
while in the cemetery. I think he was in love with the girl.’ Michael respected
his wife’s delicacy. He giggled, left Ralph at the graveside, and explaining
that he had some errands to do in the village, said he would be back by and by.
    ‘You won’t be long,’
said Ralph, ‘will you?’
    ‘Oh no,’ said Michael.
    ‘There seem to be a lot
of mosquitoes about here. Is it a fever area?’
    ‘Oh no.’ He giggled and
went.
    After Ralph had looked
at the inscription, ‘Daphne du Toit, 1922—1950, he walked up and down. He
looked blankly at the gravestones and noticed one inscribed ‘Donald Cloete’.
This name seemed familiar, but he could not remember in what way. Perhaps it
was someone Daphne had talked about.
    ‘Go’way, go’way.’
    That was the bird, just
behind Daphne’s grave. She had often mentioned the bird.
    ‘It says go’way, go’way.
    ‘Well, what about it?’
he had said to her irritably, for sometimes she had appeared to him, as in a
revelation, a personified Stupidity.
    She would tell him, ‘There’s
a bird that says “Go’way, go’way”,’ without connecting the information with any
particular event; she would expect him to be interested, as if he were an
ornithologist, not an author.
    ‘Go’way, go’way,’ said
the bird behind Daphne’s grave.
    He heard the bird at
some time during each day for the