The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Stimulated by the promise of something handsome to drink, the man acquitted himself to admiration in the management of his lazy cattle. But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. He had the air of a man who has said too much. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. ” “I couldn’t do that,” said Ann Veronica, sharply.
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