d were rather deeper yellow, the beard short,
well-shaped--the cut of Colin McKeith's beard was almost his only
vanity--there was one other, the 'millionare strut' in town--and he had
the masculine habit of stroking and clasping his beard with his large
open-fingered hand--spatulate tips to his digits, the practical
hand--fairly well kept, though brown and hairy.

There were lines in his face and a way of setting his features--that a
man gets when he has to front straight some cruel facts of human
existance--to calculate at a glance the chances of death from a black's
spear, a lost trail, an empty water-bag, the horns of a charging
bullock or even worse things than these.

And such experiences had put a stamp on him, and distinguished him from
the ordinary ruck of men--these and his undeniable manliness, and good
looks.

He smiled as he glanced amusedly from the littered wind-blown papers on
the table to his hostess' rather troubled face.

'Well you seem to have a pretty fair show here of what you call
"copy,"' he said.

Mrs Gildea met his look with one of frank pleasure.

'That's what I want YOU for.'

'What's the job?' he asked. 'You ought to know that literary "copy" is
not much in my line. Now if it had been yarding the fowls or cleaning
up the garden, I'd feel more at home as a lady's help.'

'Colin, you take me back to Bungroopim--when it happened to be a slack
day for you on the run, and when the married couple had levanted and
I'd got an incompetent black-gin in the kitchen--or when the store
wanted tidying and you and I had a good old spree amongst the rubbish.'

He laughed at a time-honoured joke.

'Stick sugar-mats and weevilly four-bins; and a breeding paddock of
tarantulas and centipedes and white lizards to clear out. I WAS a bush
hobbledehoy in those days, Joan. It's close on twenty years ago.'

Joan Gildea gave a little shudder.

'Don't remind me how old I am. There's the difference between a man and
a woman. My life's behind me: yours in front of you.'

'I don't know about that, Joan. I've had my spell of roughing
it--droving, mining, pioneering--humping bluey along the
track--stoney-broke: sold up by the bank and only just beginning now to
find out what Australia's worth.'

'That's what I said--you are just beginning. Roughing it has made a
splendid man of you, Colin: and who would ever believe that you are
four years older than I am. Colin, you ought to get married.'

'The Upper Leu