He nodded reassuringly.
"There's some beer, too, but the shepherds and old Mike from Klondyke will have to drink that. It was put into a kerosene tin that hadn't been boiled and it smells terrible. But they won't notice."
"They'll probably be dead," he remarked.
"Mike drinks methylated spirit and the shepherds have a bottle of squareface each on Sunday afternoons when Betty and Andrew and I look after the sheep. Nothing hurts us. We're hard people out here."
"What made you write to me like that?" he asked, still puzzled. "I still have no idea—"
"I wanted to see you, for one thing. But that's only a small thing. I can't tell you now. I'm the cook to-day, you see, and they'll be wanting their supper in a little while. I must go and find somewhere for you to sleep, too. How long can you stay?"
"I'm not sure," he said guardedly. "I don't want to embarrass you, however much you embarrass me."
"I'd like you to stay for months," she said simply. "I—we're very lonely."
The gramophone groaning out the "Merry Widow" waltz seemed to contradict her words, with its accompaniment of tramping feet, laughter and talk. "This only happens on birthdays and things. Even then, it's lonely."
"I don't believe you're any more lonely than I," he said.