“You are my father, Nkose,” replied the Matabele, holding forth his joined hands to receive it. Then he stepped back.
“Who is he, and what does he want, Hilary?” said Hermia, who had hardly understood a word of this colloquy; and the same held good of Spence.
“Oh, he’s a chap we had at Bulawayo. Wants to be taken on here. I think I’ll take him.”
“I don’t much like the look of him,” pursued Hermia, doubtfully.
“I should hang him on sight, if I were the jury empanelled to try him,” declared Spence.
But for all the notice he took of them, Blachland might as well not have heard these remarks, for he busied himself giving directions to his “boys,” relating to the preparation of the lion’s skin, and a dozen other matters. Leaving him to this, the other two strolled back to the house.
“I’m going home directly, Hermia,” said Spence, with a bitter emphasis on the word “home.” “I rather think I’m the third who constitutes a crowd.”
“How can you talk like that, after—” And she broke off suddenly.
“Still, I think I’ll go, darling. But—are you really going away—to Salisbury?”
“No. But you’ve got too speaking a face, Justin dear. Why on earth did you look so dismal and blank when he said that?”