Mrs. du Preez spoke, and her shrill tones were plainly audible.
"I don't make no fuss when your dirty old Doppers outspan here an' come sneakin' in for coffee, an' some of them would make a dog sick. Bailey 's got his troubles, but he don't do like Oom Piet Coetzee did when—"
An infuriate rumble from Christian broke in upon her. Boy Bailey smiled and shook his head.
"Now, now," he murmured. "Language, please."
"He 's worse than a Kafir in the house," Christian went on. "Woman, it makes me sick when he looks at you, like an old silly devil."
"So long as he don't look like an old silly Dutchman, I don't mind," retorted his wife. "I 'm fairly sick of it all—you an' your Doppers and all. And just because you can't tell when a gentleman 's having his bit of fun, you come and howl at me."
"Howl." The word seemed to sting. "Howl. Yes, instead of howling I should take my gun and let him have one minute to run before I shoot at him. You like that better, eh? You like that better?"
"Christian." There was alarm in Mrs. du Preez's voice. Behind the shut door of the kitchen, Bailey could picture Christian reaching down the big Martini that hung overhead with oiled rags wrapped about its breech.
"Time for me to cut in at this," reflected Mr. Bailey. "I never was much of a runner."
He walked along the passage with loud steps, acting a man returned from a constitutional, restored by the air and at peace with the whole human race.