"No," she said vehemently. "Don't. You mustn't. Let 's go to your house. I want to sit down indoors."
Her senses were jangled; she felt a need of relief from the empty immensity of sun and earth that surrounded her.
"Come on," said Paul. "We 'll go in."
He did not offer her his arm; it was a trick he had yet to learn. He walked at her side between the kraals, and brought her to the little parlor which housed and was glorified by Mrs. du Preez's six rosewood chairs, upholstered in velvet, sofa to match, rosewood center-table and the other furniture of the shrine. He looked at her helplessly as she sank to a seat on the "sofa to match."
"You want some water," he said, with an inspiration, and vanished.
Margaret had time somewhat to recover herself before he returned with his mother and the water.
Mrs. du Preez needed no explanations.
"Now you 'll have a bit of respect for our sun, Miss Harding," she said, after a single, narrow-eyed look at the girl. "Hand that water here, Paul; you didn't bring it for show, did you? Well, then. And just you let me take off this hat, Miss Harding. Bond Street, I 'll bet a pound. They don't build for this sun in Bond Street. Now jus' let me wet this handkerchief and lay it on your forehead. Now, ain't that better?"
She turned her head to drive a fierce whisper at Paul.
"Get out o' this. Come in by an' by."