your books to-night; don't go over there again. Look
after Mr. Bethune."

He turned to Moya when the youth was gone.

"One lie makes many," he muttered grimly.

There was no reply.

Meanwhile Bethune was in his element, with an audience of two bound to
listen to him by the bond of a couple of his best cigars, and with just
enough of crude retaliation from the storekeeper to act as a blunt
cutlass to Theodore's rapier. The table with the lamp was at the
latter's elbow, and the rays fell full upon the long succesful nose and
the unwavering mouth of an otherwise rather ordinary legal countenance.
There was plenty of animation in the face, however, and enough of the
devil to redeem a good deal of the prig. The lamp also made the most of
a gleaming shirt-front; for Theodore insisted on dressing ("for my own
comfort, purely,") even in the wilderness, where black coats were good
enough for the other young men, and where Mora herself wore a high
blouse.

"But there's nothing to be actually ashamed of in an illusion or two,"
the jackeroo was being assured, "especially at your age. I've had them
myself, and may have one or two about me still. You only know it when
you lose them, and my faith in myself has been rudely shattered. I've
shed one thundering big illusion since I've been up here."

The Rugby boy was not following; he had but expressed a sufficiently
real regret at not having gone up to Cambridge himself; and he was
wondering whether he should regret it the less in future for what this
Cambridge man had to say upon the subject. On the whole it did not
reconcile him to the university of the bush, and for a little he had a
deaf ear for the conversation. A question had been asked and answered
ere he recovered the thread.

"Oh, go on," said the storekeeper. "Give the back-blocks a rest,
Bethune!"

"I certainly shall, Mr. Spicer," rejoined Theodore, with the least
possible emphasis on the prefix, "once I shake their infernal dust from
my shoes. Not that I'd mind the dust if there was anything to do in it.
Of course this sort of thing's luxury," he had the grace to interject;
"in fact, it's far too luxurious for me. One rather likes to rough it
when one comes so far. Anything for some excitement, some romance,
something one can't get nearer home!"

"Well, you can't get this," said the loyal storekeeper.

"I never was at a loss for moonlight," observed Theodore, "when there
happened to be a moon. There are veranda