'He's been pointed out to me,' he said. 'The other white men seem rather to avoid him. I don't know what your opinion on this point may be,' he said. 'I consider that a man who marries a Kaffir sinks to her status.'
I said nothing. He did not like my silence much, I gathered. He was not so very cordial afterwards. He was a man with many grievances Carraway.
When we were drawing close to Madeira, two nights before, on the
Sunday, Carraway touched the subject again.
The parson had preached incidentally on the advisability of being white—white all round. I thought he played to his gallery a bit, in what he said.
'An excellent sermon,' said Carraway. 'Did you hear how he got at that josser with the Kaffir wife? That parson's a white man.'
I said nothing.
'What God hath divided let no man unite,' said Carraway, improving the occasion. 'I don't uphold Kaffirs. The white man must always be top dog,' etc., etc.
Carraway grew greasily fluent on rather well-worn lines. I smoked my pipe and made no comment. By-and-bye he tired of his monologue.
He gave me no further confidences till the night after we left
Madeira.
Then he came to me suddenly about eleven o'clock as I stood on the well-deck, smoking a pipe before turning in.