“A little while,” she replied—she had been there for over an hour. “Was that you singing?” she inquired, casually.
He laughed.
“Yes, I was howling to the boys.”
“You sing very well,” she said.
He muttered the conventional acceptation of her approval, then looked at her wistfully.
“What a lovely night,” he said. “One never gets such a night as this anywhere else than in Australia. The river would look jolly in the moonlight. We could see it if we went down a little way. You wouldn’t care to come, I suppose?”
She glanced from side to side, and then up at the moon, as if undecided. He watched her maidenly calm face with unconcealed eagerness.
“It’s not far,” he pleaded.
She said nothing, but moved forward, and with a leap of the heart he walked by her side. They went down to the edge of the river in silence. Esmeralda seated herself upon a bowlder bleached white by the sun, and he dropped unobtrusively at her feet.
“Are you better?” she asked, breaking the silence.