There was a fidgety interval before the big cart drove up to the house, its wheels rending through the gritty mud and its horses steaming as though they had been boiled. Mr. Samson employed each interlude in the talk to glare at Ford in lofty offense; he seemed only to be waiting till this dull business of departure was concluded to call him to account. Mrs. du Preez, who had come across in the cart to bid Margaret farewell, was welcome as a diversion.
"Well, where 's the lucky one?" she cried. "Ah, Miss Harding, can't you smell London from here? If you could bottle that smell, with a drop o' fog, a drop o' dried fish and a drop o' Underground Railway to bring out the flavor, you 'd make a fortune, sellin' it to us poor Afrikanders. But you 'll be sniffin' it from the cask in three weeks from now. Lord, I wish it was me."
"You ought to make a trip," suggested Margaret.
"Christian don't think so," declared Mrs. du Preez, with her shrill laugh. "He knows I 'd stick where I touched like a fly in a jam-pot, and he 'd have to come and pull me out of it himself."
She took an occasion to drop a private whisper into Margaret's ear.
"Kamis is outside, waitin' to see you go. He 's talkin' to Paul."
The farewells accomplished themselves. That of Mrs. Jakes would have been particularly effective but for the destructive intrusion of Mrs. du Preez.
"Er—a pleasant voyage, Miss Harding," she said, in a thin voice. "I may be in London soon myself—at Putney. But I suppose we 're hardly likely to meet before you go abroad again."
"I wonder," said Margaret peaceably.
It was then that Mrs. du Preez struck in.