He tried hard but they annoyed him, chiefly because they pushed his disciplined shoulders out of shape. Several times a day he would hop to the veranda wall, stand on his sound leg and exercise vigorously, and propel himself back to his long chair. He overflowed with energy and truth to tell, he had done so much sketching recently that he was weary of pencil and paper. He needed a change, he told Laurette. He wanted to walk round his bananas, to pick a pawpaw from one of his own trees and do a bit of weeding now and then.“Everything is neat at the bungalow,” she told him. “Two of Mr. Kelsey’s boys keep the garden trim, and Bwazi goes over the house twice a week.”“Are you still longing to get back there?”“Mr. Kelsey’s very generous, but there’s no home like one’s own.”She knew that when Charles had gone she wouldn’t be able to bear this house. She was fond of eagle-eyed Mr. Kelsey and she adored her father, but they could never bring the house alive for her, as Charles did.
