"Who 's this kid?" demanded the trooper. "Quick, now, before he 's here. Look up, or he 'll smell a rat."
Margaret raised her eyes to his slowly, cold fear and disgust mingling in her mind. He met her with a smile in which relief was the salient character.
"When Mr. Van Zyl hears how you have insulted me," she began trembling.
"Eh?" He stared at her suspiciously. "Van Zyl?" He seemed suddenly enlightened. "I say, I could n't tell you 'd—you 'd made your arrangements. Could I, now? I would n't have dreamed—look here, Miss Harding; I 'm awfully sorry. Couldn't we agree to forget all this? You can't blame a chap for trying his luck."
She did not entirely understand; she merely knew that what he said must be monstrous. No clean thing could issue from that hungry, fastidious mouth. She walked on, leaving him halted and staring after her, perturbed and apprehensive. His patient horse stood motionless with stretched neck; he sat in the saddle erect as to the body, with the easy secure seat which drill had made natural to him, but with the Punchinello face drooped forward, watching her as she went. He saw her meet Paul, saw the pair of them glance towards him and then turn their backs and walk down to the farm together. Pain, defeat and patience expressed themselves in his countenance, as in that of an ignoble Prometheus. Presently he pulled up the docile horse's head with a jerk of the bridoon.
"My luck," he said aloud, and swung his horse about.
Paul had not time to question Margaret as to her trouble, for she spoke before he could frame his slow words.
"Paul," she cried, "I want to speak to you. But—oh, can I sit down somewhere? I feel—I feel—I must sit down."
She looked over her shoulder nervously, and Paul's glance followed.
"Is it him?" he inquired. "Sit here. I 'll go to him."