“Come in then,” said Mrs. Brown, leading the way into the kitchen—a huge place so glittering with cleanliness and polish that it almost hurt the eye. “Kettle's boilin'—I'll have it made in a jiffy. No, Murty, you will not sit on that table. Pounds of bath-brick 'ave gone into me tables this last week.”
“Ye have them always that white I do not see how ye'd want them to be whiter,” remarked Murty, gazing round him. “But I niver see anything to aiqual the shine ye have on them tins an' copper. And the stove is that fine it's a shame to be cookin' with it.” He looked with respect at the black satin and silver of the stove, where leaping flames glowed redly. “Well, I'll always say there isn't a heartsomer place to come into than the Billabong kitchen. And isn't it the little misthress that thinks so?”
“Bless her, she was always in and out of it from the time she could toddle,” said Mrs. Brown, pausing with the teapot in her hand. “And she wasn't much more than toddlin' before she was at me to teach her to cook. When she was twelve she could cook a dinner as well as anyone twice her age. I never see the beat of her—handy as a man out on the run, too—”
“She was that,” said Murty solemnly. “Since she was a bit of a thing I never see the bullock as could get away from her. And the ponies she'd ride! There was nothin' ever looked through a bridle that cud frighten her.”
“Poof! Miss Norah didn't know what it was to be afraid,” said Mrs. Brown, filling the huge brown teapot. “Sometimes I've wished she was, for me heart's been in me mouth often and often when I see her go caperin' down the track on some mad-'eaded pony.”
“An' there was niver a time when they was late home but you made sure the whole lot of 'em was killed,” said Murty, grinning. “I'd come in here an' find you wit' all the funerals planned, so to speak—”
“Ah, go on! At least, I alwuz stayed at home when I was nervis,” said Mrs. Brown. “Who was it I've known catch an 'orse in the dark, an' go off to look for 'em when they were a bit late? Not me, Mr. O'Toole!” She filled his cup and handed it to him with a triumphant air.
“Yerra, I misremember doin' any such thing,” said Murty, slightly confused. “'Tis the way I was most likely goin' afther a sick bullock, or it might be 'possum shootin'.” He raised his cup and took a deep draught; then, with a wry face, gazed at its contents. “I dunno is this a new brand of tea you're afther usin', now? Sure, it looks pale.”
Mrs. Brown cast a glance at the cup he held out, and gave a gasp of horror.
“Well, not in all me born days 'ave I made tea an' forgot to put the tea in!” she exclaimed, snatching it from his hand. “Don't you go an' tell Dave and Mick, Murty, or I'll never hear the end of it. Lucky there's plenty of hot water.” She emptied the teapot swiftly, and refilled it, this time with due regard to the tea-caddy.