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Civilization, like savagery, breeds hunters, and your hunter is not happy when he is idle; there was nothing to be shot at here in the way of money, so Davis was not happy. Harman, dead to the beauty around him, might have shared the discontent of the other, only for Kinie. She gave him something to think about.

Drowsing one day under a bread-fruit tree, a squashy fruit like a custard apple fell on his head, and, looking up, he saw Kinie among the leaves looking down at him. Next moment she was gone. Bread-fruit trees don’t grow apples like that; she must have carried it there to drop it on him, a fact which, having bored itself into Mr. Harman’s intelligence, produced a certain complacency. He had been in her thoughts.

An hour or two later, sitting by the edge of the beach, she came and sat near him, dumb and stringing coloured pieces of coral together—anything coloured seemed to fascinate her—and there they sat, saying nothing, but seemingly content till Davis hove in sight and Kinie, gathering up her treasures, scampered off.