“It isn't a party, Winifred?”
“My dear David, only a few people who want to welcome you back. Really, you're just as bad as ever!” said his sister-in-law, half vexed. “The children's school friends, too—Jim and Wally's mates. You can't expect us to get you all back, after so long—and with all those honours, too!—and not give people a chance of shaking hands with you.” At which point Norah said, gently, but firmly, “Dad, you mustn't be naughty,” and led him within.
Some one grasped his hand. “Well, Linton, old chap!” And he found himself greeting the head of a big “stock and station” firm. Some one else clapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to meet his banker; behind them towered half a dozen old squatter friends, with fellow clubmen, all trying at once to get hold of his hand. David Linton's constitutional shyness melted in the heartiness of their greeting. Beyond them Norah seemed to be the centre of a mass of girls, one of whom presently detached herself, and came to him. He said in amazement, “Why, it's Jean Yorke—and grown up!” and actually kissed her, to the great delight of Jean, who had been an old mate of Norah's. As for Jim and Wally, they were scarcely to be seen, save for their heads, in a cluster of lads, who were pounding and smiting them wherever space permitted. Altogether, it was a confused and cheerful gathering, and, much to the embarrassment of the russet-brown waitresses, the last thing anybody thought of was tea.
Still, when the buzz of greetings had subsided, and at length “morning tea”—that time-honoured institution of Australia—had a chance to appear, it was of a nature to make the new arrivals gasp. The last four years in England had fairly broken people in to plain living; dainties and luxuries had disappeared so completely from the table that every one had ceased to think about them. Therefore, the Linton party blinked in amazement at the details of what to Melbourne was a very ordinary tea, and, forgetting its manners, broke into open comment.
“Cakes!” said Wally faintly. “Jean, you might catch me if I swoon.”
“What's wrong with the cakes?” said Jean Yorke, bewildered.
“Nothing—except that they are cakes! Jim!”—he caught at his chum's sleeve—“that substance in enormous layers in that enormous slice is called cream. Real cream. When did you see cream last, my son?”
“I'm hanged if I know,” Jim answered, grinning. “About four years ago, I suppose. I'd forgotten it existed. And the cakes look as if they didn't fall to pieces if you touched 'em.”
“What, do the English cakes do that?” asked a pained aunt.
“Rather—when there are any. It's something they take out of the war flour—what is it, Nor?”