d two
strips of border aglow with early summer flowers. Here she found her
_sais_ squatting on his heels; and springing from the saddle, dismissed
Yorick without his customary lump of sugar.

On the steps of the trellised verandah she paused, nerving herself to
recount her astonishing adventure in the right tone of voice, and
instinctively her brain noted every detail of the view outspread before
her. The golden stillness of morning rested on hill and valley like a
benediction. Green cornfields, white watercourses, granite
promontories, and black patches of forest--all were bathed in warmth
and light without languor. The breath of the snows was still ice-cool,
and exhilarating as wine; its freshness penetrated and enhanced by the
faint sweet scent of Banksia roses, that clothed the rickety woodwork
in a fairy garment of green and ivory-white. Each least sound was
crystal clear in the rarefied air; the quarrelling of two sparrows, the
high-pitched chatter from the compound behind the cottages, the
crooning of ring-doves among the pines. Butterflies, like detached
flowers, fluttered in and out. A faint breeze stirred the roses, so
that an occasional creamy petal fell circling to the ground.

But for the first time Quita Maurice felt out of tune with it all. A
disturbing element had thrust itself into her life, deranging its
perspective, altering its values. She felt badly in need of common
human sympathy, and the exalted calm of these high latitudes irritated
rather than soothed her.

With an impatient sigh she turned to enter the house.

The glass doors of the centre room stood open, a characteristic room,
half drawing-room, half studio; furnished mainly with two large easels,
painting-stools, and cane chairs, yet bearing in every detail the stamp
of Quita's iridescent personality. A pianette, a violin, a litter of
music, and back numbers of the 'Art Journal' occupied one corner. A
revolving bookcase showed an inviting array of books. Her own canvas
was hidden by draperies of dull gold silk, and beside it, on a carved
stool, sprays of Banksia roses and honeysuckle soared plumelike from a
vase of beaten bronze.

Before the second easel Michael stood, with his back towards her, brush
and palette in hand, head critically tilted, his velveteen coat sagging
a little from rounded shoulders. Absorbed in his picture, he was quite
unconscious of her presence. This irritated her also to an
unjustifiable extent.