“Well, you’re a coward.”
“All right,” he said. “What of it?”
“Nothing as far as I’m concerned. But please let’s not talk, darling, because I’m very sleepy.”
“You think that I’ll take anything.”
“I know you will, sweet.”
“Well, I won’t.”
“Please, darling, let’s not talk. I’m so very sleepy.”
“There wasn’t going to be any of that. You promised there wouldn’t be.”
“Well, there is now,” she said sweetly.
“You said if we made this trip that there would be none of that. You promised.”
“Yes, darling. That’s the way I meant it to be. But the trip was spoiled yesterday. We don’t have to talk about it, do we?”
“You don’t wait long when you have an advantage, do you?”
“Please let’s not talk. I’m so sleepy, darling.”
“I’m going to talk.”
“Don’t mind me then, because I’m going to sleep.” And she did.
At breakfast they were all three at the table before daylight and Francis Macomber found that, of all the many men that he had hated, he hated Robert Wilson the most.
“Sleep well?” Wilson asked in his throaty voice, filling a pipe.
“Did you?”
“Topping,” the white hunter told him.
You bastard, thought MaComber, you insolent bastard.
So she woke him when she came in, Wilson thought, looking at them both with his flat, cold eyes. Well, why doesn’t he keep his wife where she belongs? What does he think I am, a bloody plaster saint? Let him keep her where she belongs. It’s his own fault.
“Do you think we’ll find buffalo?” Margot asked, pushing away a dish of apricots.
