"No friends in town, evidently?"
Belinda rose with fine stateliness.
"If there's nothing I can do for you, Mr. Ryder——"
"Sit down."
She sat down involuntarily, and then felt egregiously foolish because she had done it; but John Ryder was leaning forward with his honest eyes holding hers and was talking earnestly.
"Please don't be angry. I've been out in the Australian bush so long that I've forgotten my parlour tricks. Men say what they think, and ask for what they want, and do pretty well as they please—or can—out there. I've hardly seen a woman. I suppose they'd cut down the independence if they entered into the game. But, see here, Miss Carewe, you're homesick. I'm homesick, too—and I'm worse off than you, for I'm homesick at home. It's rather dreadful being homesick at home."
There was a note, half bitter, half regretful, in the voice and a look in the eyes that was an appeal to generosity.
Belinda's conventionality crumpled up and her heart warmed toward the fellow-waif.
"I've been counting a good deal upon a home Christmas," he went on; "more than I realised; and this isn't exactly the real thing."
Belinda nodded comprehension.