be no possible unpleasantness--for even such hostesses have their duties
of tact--she politely introduced him as Mr. Jones.

He had been a man of innumerable occupations--nothing long: caretaker of
tanks, rabbit-trapper, boundary-rider, cook at a shearers' camp, and, in
due time, he became book-keeper at O'Fallen's. That was due to Vic. Mr.
Jones wrote a very fine hand--not in the least like a business man--when
he was moderately sober, and he also had an exceedingly caustic wit
when he chose to use it. He used it once upon O'Fallen, who was a rough,
mannerless creature, with a good enough heart, but easily irritated by
the man with the eye-glass, whose superior intellect and manner, even
when drunk, were too noticeable. He would never have employed him were
it not for Vic, who was worth very much money to him in the course of
the year. She was the most important person within a radius of a hundred
and fifty miles, not excepting Rembrandt, the owner of Bomba Station,
which was twenty miles square, nor the parson at Magari, ninety miles
south, by the Ring-Tail Billabong. For both Rembrandt and the parson
had, and showed, a respect for her, which might appear startling were it
seen in Berkeley Square or the Strand.

When, therefore, O'Fallen came raging into the barroom one morning, with
the gentle remark that "he'd roast the tongue of her fancy gent if he
didn't get up and git," he did a foolish thing. It was the first time
that he had insulted Victoria, and it was the last. She came out white
and quiet from behind the bar-counter, and, as he retreated from her
into a corner, said: "There is not a man who drinks over this bar, or
puts his horse into your shed, who wouldn't give you the lie to that and
thrash you as well--you coward!" Her words came on low and steady: "Mr.
Jones will go now, of course, but I shall go also."

This awed O'Fallen. To lose Vic was to lose the reputation of his house.
He instantly repented, but she turned her shoulder on him, and went
into the little hot office, where the book-keeper was, leaving him
gesticulating as he swore at himself in the glass behind the bar. When
she entered the room she found Mr. Jones sitting rigid on his stool,
looking at the open ledger before him. She spoke his name. He nodded
ever so slightly, but still looked hard at the book. She knew his
history. Once he had told it to her. It happened one day when he had
resigned his position as boundary-rider, in which he w