As a result of their conversation it did not surprise Matheson that he was debarred from bearing any part in the conference that took place between the two Dutchmen that same evening. With the finish of supper when, according to custom, he went out on the stoep to smoke, instead of being accompanied by Krige, he discovered Mrs Krige following in his wake, cutting him off from the others, who remained seated at the table which Honor, assisted by Koewe, was clearing.
“Mr Marais wants to talk business with Andreas,” Mrs Krige explained.
When the white cloth was removed the two men drew their chairs closer about the table; and the hum of their voices, with the pungent smell of Oom Koos’ calabash, assailed the senses insistently, and afforded reasonable grounds for Mrs Krige’s suggestion that they should move their chairs farther along the stoep. Matheson accordingly moved them beyond sight of the room and its inmates, where the sound of voices reached them muffled and indistinct, and the powerful scent of Boer tobacco ceased from being an offence.
“He is the kindest dear in the world,” she said; “but he does smoke vile tobacco. And he prefers to smoke inside. The smell of it hangs about the room for days.”
Freidja came out and joined them, and after a long interval Honor made her appearance on the stoep, tired and rather cross and unnaturally silent. She had been making bread, and still wore her sleeves rolled above the elbow. Matheson’s glance fell admiringly to the round white arms, and then lifted to the fair face which even in the fading light showed plainly its owner’s discontent.
“Come and sit down,” he said.
“No.” She stood with her shoulders flattened against the wall of the house, and did not move. “I want air. How hot it is!”
“You are tired, Honor,” Mrs Krige said. “It has been a trying day.”
The ghost of a smile flickered across Honor’s face.
“It has,” she agreed. And Matheson felt that she included him in the day’s list of trying experiences.