"Thank you," said Moya, smiling still.
"But I thought you were knocked up with thirst? I am, I can tell you. And it's only rather salt—that's why we've given up using that whim—but it's not salt enough to make you dotty!"
Moya maintained the kindly demeanour which she had put on with her smile; it cost her an effort, however.
"Go on your own account, by all means," said she; "but not on mine, for I shan't touch a drop. I'm really not so thirsty as you suppose; let me set you an example of endurance, Mr. Ives!"
That was enough for him. He was spurring and yelping round his mob next moment. But Moya did not watch him; she had turned in her saddle to take a last look at the black hieroglyph of a whim, with the little iron roof blazing beside it in the sun. She even shaded her eyes with one sunburnt hand, as if to assure herself that she had made no mistake.
"So the whim is abandoned, and the hut unoccupied?"
"Yes, ever since Mr. Rigden has been manager. I hear it was one of his first improvements."
They had struck the farther fence, and the mob was well in hand along the wires. Moya and the jackeroo were ambling leisurely behind, and nothing could have been more natural than Moya's questions.
"And the hut is unoccupied?" was her next.
"Quite; as a matter of fact, it's unfit for occupation."