Moya coloured, but had the wit to accept his construction.
"Well, it isn't your fault, at any rate, Mr. Ives."
"But I might have ridden on and filled the bag; there's certain to be something in the tank at the hut."
"Then let's ride on together."
"No, you ride ahead and fill the water-bag. It'll save time, Miss Bethune, because I can be cutting off the corner with the mob."
But the mob had first to be rounded up, for it had split and scattered, and over a square mile every inch of shade was covered by a crouching fleece. The mounted Ives made a circuit with his patent yelp, and each tuft and bush shook out its pure merino. It was harder work to head them off the fence at an angle of forty-five, and to aim for the other fence before a post of it was discernible by near-sighted eyes. Ives was too busy to follow Moya's excursion, but was not less delighted than amazed at the speed with which she returned from the hut.
"Good riding, Miss Bethune! A drink, a drink, my kingdom——"
Moya's face stopped him.
"I'm sorry to say I've got nothing for you to drink, Mr. Ives."
Ives licked the roof of his mouth, but tried to be heroic.