Stella’s next question was without trace of irritation.

“How much did you drink in Carie?”

The young man winced.

“Not much, old girl,” he confessed. “Four cocktails all told. They bucked me up, anyway. I was not feeling up to scratch all yesterday. I hate these dust-storms. Is it bad again today?”

“It’s vile. It is going to be worse than yesterday, I think. I’ve brought the morning-tea.”

“What’s the time?”

“A few minutes after ten. There’s nothing to get up for if you’re not fit.”

“Then I’ll snooze off again after I’ve drunk the tea. By the look of it and the sound of it no one of us will be able to work. Has there been a telephone message, or a telegram from Carie?”

“No. You’ve often asked that question lately. Are you expecting a wire?”

Borradale hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying:

“Well yes, perhaps. I’ve been hoping to receive a visit from a man from Brisbane. Personal matter, you know. I have been expecting him for a month. Oh, well, he’ll turn up some day.”

“Indeed!”

Stella waited for enlightenment, but did not press for it. When she turned to the windows from which she had a few minutes before drawn aside the curtains, the sinister day-light revealed clear, hazel eyes well spaced in a vital face. Her brother watched her as she crossed to the door, and it did not occur to him that she might be piqued by reason of his secrecy regarding the expected visit. Her dressing-gown was of white and gold, and her light-brown hair hung in two plaits down her back. He did realize how amazingly-feminine she was, and how wisely obstinate in her refusal to have her hair cut.

During her absence from the room he wearily sipped his tea, and when she returned carrying a small bottle he inquired what it contained.