Matheson was interested, intensely interested—and hurt.
“Isn’t all this you have been telling me a distortion of facts?” he asked.
“No,” she answered. “It is just a bald summary of the principal events in the history of the Colony since its beginning.”
“I am sorry I am so ignorant of these things,” he said. “A man ought to read up the history of a country before he visits it. I’m at a disadvantage. That only matters in as far as it prevents my answering you. I am hearing only your side. You have made out a good case... There’s always injustice where the interests of races conflict. If one went back far enough, I imagine one would find the greatest injustice has been meted out to the natives.”
“Oh, the natives!” Her voice sounded her contempt. “You British always fall back on the natives. It’s your unfailing retort that you administer more wisely and more humanely than we do.”
“It’s a fairly sound argument,” he returned with greater assurance. “No nation in the world can colonise as we can.”
“Honor,” Mrs Krige interposed gently, “it is an abuse of hospitality to attack a guest.”
Again the pale fleeting smile crossed Honor’s features. She glanced down at the man, who sat with face half averted looking towards the deepening purple of the sky, the colours of which never fade entirely on the Karroo even in the pallid hour of the dawn.
“I am making no attack,” she answered. “I am exposing the bleeding heart of Africa for him to see.” She came closer to him. “Can you see? ... blood and hatred, blood and hatred—the price of every morgen of this land.”
He looked up, immeasurably perplexed and discomposed. He had persuasion that he ought to say something, offer some protest, put up something of a defence; but he felt hopelessly inadequate. There was nothing he could find to say except: