They all accompanied Stonor to the door. The long-drawn summer dusk of the North is an ever fresh wonder to newcomers. At sight of the exquisite half-light and the stars an exclamation of pleasure broke from Clare.
“Much too fine a night to go to bed!” she cried. “Sergeant Stonor, take me out to the bench beside the flagstaff for a few minutes.”
As they sat down she said: “Don’t you want to smoke?”
“Don’t feel the need of it,” he said. His voice was husky with feeling. Would a man want to smoke in Paradise?
By glancing down and sideways he could take her in as far up as her neck without appearing to stare rudely. She was sitting with her feet crossed and her hands in her lap like a well-bred little girl. When he dared glance at her eyes he saw that there was no consciousness of him there. They were regarding something very far away. In the dusk the wistfulness which hid behind a smile in daylight looked forth fully and broodingly.
Yet when she spoke the matter was ordinary enough. “All the men here tell me about the mysterious stranger who lives on the Swan River. They can’t keep away from the subject. And the funny part of it is, they all seem to be angry at him. Yet they know nothing of him. Why is that?”
“It means nothing,” said Stonor, smiling. “You see, all the men pride themselves on knowing every little thing that happens in the country. It’s all they have to talk about. In a way the whole country is like a village. Well, it’s only because this man has succeeded in defying their curiosity that they’re sore. It’s a joke!”
“They tell me that you stand up for him,” she said, with a peculiar warmth in her voice.
“Oh, just to make the argument interesting,” said Stonor lightly.
“Is that all?” she said, chilled.