"That money," he said doubtfully.
"Oh." The Boer glanced uneasily at his wife, who laid down her knife and fork and began to listen with startled interest.
"That 's all right," said Christian. "Do what you like with it. Go to the dorp and spend it; it 's yours. Now eat your supper."
"I am going to London," said Paul then, seriously, and having got it off his mind, said, heard and done with, he resumed his meal with an appetite.
"London," echoed the Boer. "London?" exclaimed Mrs. du Preez.
"Yes," said Paul. "To make models. Here there is nobody to see them."
"He is gone mad," said the Boer with conviction. "He has been queer for a long time and now he is mad. Paul, you are mad."
"Am I?" asked Paul respectfully, and continued to eat.
His father and mother had much to say, agitatedly, angrily, persuasively, but people were always saying things to him that had no real meaning. It was ridiculous, for instance, that the Boer should call him a dumb fool because at the close of a lecture he should ask for more coffee. He wasn't dumb and didn't believe he was a fool. People were n't fools because they went to London; on the contrary, they had to be rather clever and enterprising to get there at all. And at the back of his mind dwelt the thing he could not hope to convey and did not attempt to—a sense he had, which warmed and uplifted him, of nearing a goal after doubt and difficulty, the Pisgah exaltation and tenderness, the confidence that to him and to the work which his hands should perform, Canaan was reserved, virgin and welcoming. It was a strength he had in secret, and the Boer knew himself baffled when after an hour of exhortation to be sane and explanatory and obedient and comprehensible, he looked up and said, very thoughtfully:
"In London, people pay a shilling to look at clays, father."