"I thought you 'd want to," replied Margaret. "I don't expect you to—to approve, but I did rely on your bothering about it all a little. But if you 'd rather not, that ends the matter."
"I didn't mean it like that," he said.
"Tell me," demanded Margaret; "don't you think I owe you an explanation?"
He considered her gravely for some seconds.
"Yes," he answered finally. "I think you ought to tell me about it."
"I 'm willing to," she said earnestly. "Oh, I wanted to often and often before. But I had to be careful. This Kafir is in danger of arrest by Mr. Van Zyl, and though he could easily clear himself before a court, you know what it means for a native to be arrested by him. He 'takes the kick out of them.' So I was n't really free to speak."
"Perhaps you weren't," granted Ford. "But you were free to keep away from him, and from niggers in general—were n't you?"
"Quite," agreed Margaret. "It is n't niggers in general, though—it 's just this one."
She leaned forward, with both elbows on the edge of the bed and her fingers intertwined. She felt that the color had mounted in her face, but she was sedulous to keep her eyes on his.
"He 's a nigger—yes," she said; "black as your hat, and all that. But there 's a difference. This—nigger—I hate that word—was taken away when he was six years old and brought up in England. He was properly educated and he 's a doctor, a real doctor with diplomas and degrees, and he 's come out here to try and help his own people. As yet, he can't even speak Kafir, and he 's had a fearful time ever since he landed. Talking to him is just like talking to any one else. He 's read books and knows a bit about art, and all that; and he 's ever so humble and grateful for just a few words of talk. He 's out there in the veld, all day and all night, lonely and hunted. Of course I spoke to him and was as friendly as I could be. Don't you see, Mr. Ford? Don't you see?"