At the little noise it made, Paul turned sharply and the Kafir raised his head and looked at her. There was an instant of puzzled staring and then the Kafir lifted his hat to her.
"I 'll be going," he said, and began to rise to his feet.
"Don't," said Paul. "Don't go." He was looking at the girl expectantly, waiting for her to justify herself. Now was the time to confirm his faith in her. "Don't go," he repeated. "It's Miss Harding that I told you about." He hesitated a moment, and now his eyes appealed to her. "She 's from London," he said; "she 'll understand."
The Kafir waited, standing up, a slender, upright young man in worn discolored clothes. To Margaret then, as to Paul in his first encounter with him at the station, there was a shock in the pitiful, gross negro face that went with the pleasant, cultivated voice. It added something slavish to his travel-stained appearance that touched the girl's quick pity.
She stepped forward impulsively.
"Please don't go," she begged, "I should be so sorry. And Paul will introduce us."
He smiled. "It shall be as you like, of course," he answered. "Will you sit down? The grass is always dry here."
He made an oddly conventional gesture, as though the slope of the dam wall were a chair and he were going to place it for her.
"Oh, thanks," said Margaret, and sat down.
CHAPTER VI