The girl started, as if his voice had roused her from stupor.
"What business is it o' yours?" she asked.
"I told you that the night your father died," said Bert, quite simply.
"Well, if you want to know, I shall go, whether they want me or whether they don't, so it won't make any difference to you," she replied coldly.
He bit back the oath that leapt to his lips.
"You've made up your mind to that?" he said; his voice was audibly unsteady.
"Think I'd stay here, with all the world to choose from?" said she scornfully. "Not if Slabbert's Poort was paved with diamonds! No, indeed; I do know enough to know that all the world's not like this. I'm going to see what it is like."
Bert had completed the washing-up and rinsed his big hands in clean water. He stood wiping them on the roller-towel, looking down upon her, so sudden a dilation in his heart and throat that for a space he was unable to articulate. He had forgotten the party in the room beyond as though it never existed.
"Millie, let me take yer! Marry me, Millie, and let's cut an' run together. Oh ... you don' know how good I could be to yer! Millie, little woman!"
"Drop it, Bert Mestaer! I can't stand it," gasped the girl, dragging herself to her feet. "You're always the same, if ever I trust myself with you for a minute alone. Why can't you hold your tongue?"