any more than folks in town."

"That's right, Ned," put in Connie, suddenly recollecting that she was
chilly. "Will you hand me my cloak, please? You see," she went on as he
brought it, "Harry imagines every bushman as just six feet high,
proportionally broad, with bristling black beard streaked with grey,
longish hair, bushy eyebrows, bloodshot eyes, moleskins, jean shirt,
leathern belt, a black pipe, a swag--you call it 'swag,' don't you?--
over his shoulders, and a whisky bottle in his hand whenever he is
'blowing in his cheque,' which is what Nellie says you call 'going on the
spree.' Complimentary, isn't it?"

"Connie's libelling both me and my typical bushman," said Stratton,
lighting his cigar, having passed the box around. Ned was laughing
against his will. Connie had mimicked her husband's imaginary bushman in
a kindly humorous way that was very droll.

The musical debate had started up again behind them. Ford and George
argued for the traditional rendering of music. Nellie and Arty battled
for the musical zeit-geist, the national sense that sees through mere
notation to the spirit that breathes behind. They waxed warm and threw
authorities and quotations about, hardly waiting for each other to finish
what they wished to say. Connie turned round to the disputants and threw
herself impetuously into the quarrel, strengthening with her wit and
trained criticism the cause of the zeit-geist. Stratton, to Ned's
surprise, putting his arms over her shoulders, opposed her arguments and
controverted her assertions with unsparing keenness. Josie leaned back on
the lounge and smiled across at Ned. The smile said plainly: "It really
doesn't matter, does it?" Ned, fuming inwardly, thought it certainly did
not. What a waste of words when the world outside needed deeds! This
verbiage was as empty as the tobacco smoke which began to hang about the
room in bluish clouds.

Suddenly Mrs. Stratton stood up. "Geisner!" she cried. "I'm ashamed of
you. You hear us getting overwhelmed by these English heresies, and you
don't come to the rescue. We have talked ourselves dry and you haven't
said a word. Who says wine?"

Geisner slowly put down his book and went to the piano. "This is the only
argument worth the name," he said. He ran his fingers over the keys,
struck two or three chords apparently at hap-hazard, then sat down to
play. A volume of sound rose, of clashing notes in fierce, swinging
movement, a thrilling clamour of so