Then the girl turned round, and Turner wondered to himself if she were going to repeat the performance of last night. But no, she was quiet and subdued now, as if all hope, all resentment even, had left her.
“Going to the head station?” she asked, and her voice was soft and low and very sweet, with just a trace of the guttural enunciation of her mother’s race; but she spoke good English, far better than her appearance seemed to warrant, and did no small credit to old Miss Howard’s training.
“Yes, yes, of course. We’re going to the head station, but Stanesby ‘ll be back in a day or two,” he added soothingly, because of the sorrow on her face. And then he hated himself for saying so much. What business was it of his?
She stepped forward and laid both hands on his arm.
“Don’t take him away, don’t, don’t!” she pleaded.
Her big dark eyes were swimming with tears, and there was an intensity of earnestness in her tones that went to the young man’s heart. Besides, he was young, and she was very good to look upon.
“My dear child,” he said, his anger against his old friend growing, “I have nothing in the world to do with it. He must go into the head-station sometimes. He must have gone often before.”
She dropped her hands and leaned back wearily against the wall.
“No,” she said, “no, not when the myalls are down along the creek.”
“Good Lord! Those d——d black fellows! I never thought of them. But they won’t touch you!”