"Are you, Sophie?" he said. "Well ... I don't think there's anyone else on the Ridge'd dare say so."
"I've dreamt of that smile of yours, Michael," Sophie said. She swayed a little as she looked at him; her eyes closed.
Michael put his arm round her and led her to the bed. He made her lie down and drew the coverlet over her.
"You lay down while I make you a cup of tea, Sophie," he said.
Sophie was lying so still, her face was so quiet and drained of colour when he returned with tea in a pannikin and a piece of thick bread and butter on the only china plate in the hut, that Michael thought she had fainted. But the lashes swept up, and her eyes smiled into his grave, anxious face as he gazed at her.
"I'm all right, Michael," she said, "only a bit crocky and dead tired." She sat up, and Michael sat on the bed beside her while she drank the tea and ate the bread and butter.
"Tea in a pannikin is much nicer than any other tea in the world," Sophie said. "Don't you think so, Michael? I've often wondered whether it's the tea, or the taste of the tin pannikin, or the people who have tea in pannikins, that makes it so nice."
After a while she said:
"I came up on the coach this morning ... didn't get in till about half-past six.... And I came straight up from Sydney the day before. That's all night on the train ... and I didn't get a sleeper. Just sat and stared out of the window at the country. Oh! I can't tell you how badly I've wanted to come home, Michael. In the end I felt I'd die if I didn't come—so I came."
Then she asked about Potch and her father.