"Oh, get away; you make me sick," she said.
Before Bert could speak or move, Mayne went up to him, took him by the arm, and led him out of the room. Then, handing him his hat, he drew him as passively out of the house.
Neither spoke till they had walked half a mile. Mayne was half in fear that Bert, in his rage, might set upon him bodily, and congratulated himself, not for the first time in his missionary career, upon the possession of thews and sinews. But no ebullition came. Bert's face had gone grey, and he looked worn and shrunken in the strong sunlight.
At last, smitten by the despair in his altered manner, the elder man ventured to speak.
"Mestaer, you must come and put up at my place till Miss Lutwyche is well enough to travel. You did the best you could for her—you did well; but the strain is too great, and it must cease. I shall wire for one of the Sisters from Leitersdorp to come and help Anna to nurse her. As to you, you have to fight and win a man's hardest battle; and I'll give you a bit of advice—"
"Go to h— with your advice!"
"I'm not far away now, to judge by the sulphur in the atmosphere," retorted Mayne drily, and said no more.
They walked on until they came to the little Mission, and turned in to the sparsely-furnished living-room, with its crucifix and Albrecht Dürer fac-similes, and the Da Vinci Virgin on the rude mantel.
Bert walked across the room, planted both elbows on the shelf, and stared with blank eyes at the ineffable smile of the pictured face. Suddenly he wheeled round.
"Well, what's your blasted advice?" he said rudely. "A black-coated prig that doesn't know what it means to be..."