"Because you 're such an ordinary person," retorted Margaret.
He lifted his head at the tone of her voice, but further talk was arrested by the sight of a man on horseback coming across from the road towards them. Both recognized Christian du Preez. They saw him at the moment that he switched his cantering pony round towards the house, and came swiftly over the grass. He had his rifle slung upon his back by a sling across the chest, and he reined up short immediately below them, so that he remained with his face just above, the rail of the stoep.
"Daag," he said awkwardly.
"Afternoon," replied Ford. "Are you painted for war, or what, with that gun of yours?"
The Boer, checking his fretting pony with heel and hand, gave him a bewildered look. The dust was thick in his beard, as from long traveling, and lay in damp streaks in each furrow of his thin face. The faint, acrid smell of sweating man and horse lingered about him. He moistened his lips before he could speak further.
"My wife is gone out," he said, speaking as though he restrained many eager words. "I must speak to her at once. She is not here—not?"
"I don't think so," said Ford.
Margaret was more certain. "Mrs. du Preez has n't been here this afternoon," she assured the Boer. "There 's nothing wrong, I hope."
Christian looked from one to the other as they answered with quick nervous eyes.
"No," he said. "But it is something—I must speak to her. She is not here, then?"