"All the afternoon," replied Rigden; "between the store and this verandah."
"And you've had no travellers at all?"
"Not one."
"Well, never mind," cried the sergeant. "You shall have four for the night."
And the puggarees fluttered, and the stirrup irons jingled, out of sight and earshot, through the dark still pines, and so into a blood-red sunset.
III
INSULT
Rigden remained a minute at least (Moya knew it was five) gazing through the black trees into the red light beyond. That was so characteristic of him and his behaviour! Moya caught up the Australasian (at hand but untouched all this time) and pretended she could see to read. The rustle brought Rigden to the right about at last. Moya was deep in illegible advertisements. But the red light reached to her face.