He came back then, and she was frightened of him.

“Let’s get out of this,” he said impatiently.  “I can’t talk to you here in his house.  Let us get off into the Bush somewhere.  Where’s the boy?”

“He’s playing with Betty.”

“You’d better fetch him along,” he said unevenly.

She shook her head.

“Louis would be worried if he came in and found me out at tea-time,” she said.  “It made him very unhappy to see you, you know.  He can’t bear to think that you are free while he is a slave.”

She walked before him to look at the distant smoke of the fires.  The clearing was almost finished.

“Damn Louis!” he cried.  “He is a slave because he lets himself be!  And you’re a slave because he’s one.  I shall not let you stay here, chained.  Armour suits you better.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she gasped.

He strode along without her, knowing that she would follow; it was so good to follow instead of leading always.

“You know quite well what I mean,” he said at last when they were out of sight of the house and only faint pungency of burning wood reached them, with the crackle of wind in the scrub.  “I’ve made a woman like you, in my dreams.  I never thought to see her in the flesh—­yet—.  One who could march along by me shining—­not wanting to be carried over rough places—­getting in a man’s way, stooping his back—­”

She tried to speak, but his eyes silenced her.  She stared at him, fascinated.

“Oh I’m so sick of pretty, pathetic, seductive little women.  Always I have to make love to them.  It’s the only meeting-ground between a man and most women.  You—­I couldn’t make love to you!  You’re not seductive, in the least.  You’re hard and quick and taut.  There’s a courage about you—­”

“Please, Professor Kraill,” she began, but he silenced her by an impatient gesture.

“Listen to me, Marcella.  You listened to me before, like a little meek girl on a school-bench.  I’m sick, sick, sick of women!  Soft corners and seduction!—­Narcotics—­when what a man needs is a tonic.  Miserable, soft, uncourageous things.  I want the courage of you.”

“Can’t you see that you’re all wrong about me?” she said at last.  “I’m not hard, really—­only a bit crusted, I think.  See what I’ve done to Louis!”

“Louis!” he cried contemptuously.  “You’re not going to be wasted on that half thing any longer.  I’m not saying it isn’t fine to save a man’s life.  It is.  It’s very fine and splendid.  But you’ve to be honest with yourself, Marcella, and think if it’s worth while.  He’s not worth it.  If you save him from drinking there’s very little to him, you know.”

“Don’t tell me that, because what you say I believe,” she cried in a stricken voice.  “It’s all my life you’re turning to ashes.”

“I shall give you beauty for ashes, Marcella.  You and I together, we can go marching on in seven-league boots!  There’s a kingliness about you.  Listen to the things I say to you unconsciously!  I can’t say the pretty, graceful, soft things we say to women!  There’s a kingliness, Marcella—­not only about you, but about me too.  We’re not the common ruck.  You’re not happy, are you?”