'Transvaal Vale,' said Roly; 'come on down and see—it looks great. I rubbed Hermie's silly name off.'
But Mortimer did not move. Dunks' Selection the place had always been, and always would be called; but Hermie in piteous rebellion had written years ago in violet ink on the sliprails, The Rosery. Mortimer would not go and look at the poor little name defaced.
Miss Browne came out, Miss Browne with her face shiny with recent washing, her hair almost tidy, the better of her two colourless gowns on her back.
'Very glad indeed to see you—very sorry to keep you waiting so long—hope you, your father is quite well—Bart, my dear, a chair—what are you thinking of, to let Mr. Stevenson sit on the step?—very sad about the war—Flossie, don't tease Mr. Stevenson, my dear—quite a cool day—providential thing the drought has broken—hope you will stay to tea.'
These and sundry other remarks she delivered breathlessly, and at the end put her hand to her side and gasped gently.
'I shall be most pleased to stay, Miss Browne, if it will be putting you to no inconvenience,' Mortimer said.
'Most pleased—most happy—an honour—who is so kind, so thoughtful—those English magazines—and she had never thanked him yet, and those delicious chocolates—too good of him; most glad if he would stay—uncomfortable house—unavoidable—bush, no comfort—he would understand——'
'He knows he's not to take more than two helpings of butter,' said Bart, with a twinkle in his eye.
'Bart, my dear—oh, my love—your mother—what would she say?—Mr. Stevenson—what can he think?—my dear—oh, my love,' and the poor lady withdrew in hot haste, to hide the embarrassment Bart had plunged her into, and to laboriously prepare tea.
'I see your father's come down generously,' said Mr. Cameron, glancing up a moment from his papers. 'Matthew Stevenson—that is your father, of course—five thousand pounds, and more if wanted, to the fund for the Bushmen's Contingent.'