They were talking still of Europe, Italy, Switzerland, England, Paris—the wonderworld to Victoria, who had never been out of New South Wales in her life, in spite of her name—which name her father had given her to annoy all his neighbours, because he said the State of Victoria was run like a paradise compared to New South Wales—although he too never went a yard out of his home state, if he could help it; they were talking still of Europe when they heard Jack’s voice calling from the opposite yard.
“Hello,” cried Victoria, running out. “Are you there, Jack? I was listening for the motor-bike. I remember now, you went by tram.”
Sometimes she seemed a little afraid of him—physically afraid—though he was always perfectly good-humoured with her. And this evening she sounded like that—as if she feared his coming home, and wanted the Somers to shelter her.
“You’ve found a second home over there, apparently,” said Jack, advancing towards the fence. “Well, how’s things?”
It was dark, so they could not see his face. But he sounded different. There was something queer, unknown about him.
“I’ll come over for a game of chess to-night, old man, if you’ll say the word,” he said to Somers. “And the ladies can punish the piano again meanwhile, if they feel like it. I bought something to sweeten the melodies with, and give us a sort of breathing-space now and then: sort of little ear-rest, you know.”
“That means a pound of chocolates,” said Victoria, like a greedy child. “And Mrs Somers will come and help me to eat them. Good!” And she ran in home. Somers thought of a picture advertisement in the Bulletin:
“Madge: I can’t think what you see in Jack. He is so unintellectual.”
“Gladys: Oh, but he always brings a pound of Billyer’s chocolates.”
Or else: “Sweets to the Sweet. Give Her Billyer’s chocolates”; or else: “Billyer’s chocolates sweeten the home.”