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Mr. Doffnang. A man I had not yet met, young and bespectacled, sat next to Janice, and facing Hugo sat Mr. Patel in a resplendent turban that added more than a touch of glamour to the gathering.
    Hugo poured the wine, passing over Mr. Patel’s glass, to the latter’s relief, while two Africans served the soup from a gigantic tureen into some bone china soup bowls that were placed in front of each one of us, one by one. How odd it was, I thought, that people should solemnly sit down to a formal dinner miles away from any centre of civilisation. And yet here we were, sipping a French wine and eating food that would not have disgraced any hotel in Europe, and outside was nothing but raw Africa. And then, as if to prove my point, a lion roared not so very far away, and the sound of it filled the whole camp, making the backs of our hands tingle with that primitive fear that is quite pleasurable as long as one knows that one is safe and warm, no matter what is going on elsewhere.
    My eyes met Hugo’s and he smiled at me. Quite why, I don’t know, but I found it comforting to think that the lions were his concern. I could hardly imagine them coming into the compound of the camp with him around. It made me feel very safe and calm. But the roaring lion made the others jittery. Mr. Doffnang looked nervously about him.
    “What is it? Is it coming here?”
    I reassured him as best I could. “No, no,” I said. “It’s only a lion. It’s a long way away from here.”
    “A long way? It sounds close to me,” he replied.
    “You can hear a lion five miles away,” I said firmly.
    The bespectacled young man, who was sitting next to Janice, nodded his head. “I have heard them myself,” he said in German.
    Mr. Doffnang was overcome by delight. “Can you understand me also?” he said in simple Dutch.
    The young man nodded. “Enough. I don’t speak German very well. I’m sorry.”
    But Mr. Doffnang was enchanted. “We must talk together more! ” he insisted genially.
    “If you like,” the young man assented. He turned his attention from Mr. Doffnang to myself. “What are you here for?” he asked me in English.
    “To translate for Mr. Doffnang,” I told him.
    He looked surprised. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you might have a speciality too?”
    “What sort of speciality?” I asked, puzzled.
    “Like Janice and her photography,” he answered laconically. “Or me, come to that. I fly little aeroplanes about, tracking groups of animals on their migrations. You don’t—”
    “No,” I said hastily, “I don’t.”
    To my surprise he looked very pleased. “Good. By the way, my name is Johnny Hurst.”
    “Mine is Clare deJong,” I responded.
    “Dutch?” he said.
    “No.” I hesitated. “I’m Kenyan really,” I said. “My father’s people came originally from South Africa and my mother is British.”
    “Oh, I see,” he said. I had the feeling he didn’t see at all. “I’m an all-American boy!”
    We laughed together, Mr. Patel joined in, though I’m sure he hadn’t the faintest idea what the joke was.
    “I’ll tell you a secret,” Johnny went on cheerfully. “Abdul here likes flying round with me a good deal better than he likes working on building sites, don’t you, eh?”
    Mr. Patel nodded sorrowfully. “It’s all too true,” he agreed. “When I get my own licence to fly, I shall say goodbye to building once and for all!”
    Janice winked at me. “Johnny takes too many risks!” she said lightly. “Be warned by me!”
    “If he did, he wouldn’t be working for me,” Hugo interposed sharply.
    Janice put her hand on his arm and squeezed it “I was only joking, darling.”
    I noticed that Hugo didn’t pull his hand away. “I’m not in the mood for such jokes,” he retorted calmly. “Johnny does excellent work and he’s a very good pilot.”
    “For which recommendation, many thanks!” the American put in irrepressibly.
    Janice made a face at him. “All the same, you shouldn’t