“I should like that awfully,” said Hardress. “Well, if you’re sure it would not be too much trouble, Miss Linton——?”
“It’s not a scrap of trouble,” she said. “Allenby will show you the way. See that Captain Hardress has a good fire, Allenby—and take some papers and magazines up.” She looked sadly after the tall figure as it limped away. He was not much older than Jim, but his face held a world of bitter experience.
“You mustn’t let the Tired People make you unhappy, mate,” said her father. He put his arm round her as they went into the drawing-room to await their guests. “Remember, they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t need help of some sort.”
“I won’t be stupid,” said Norah. “But he has such a sorry face, Dad, when he doesn’t smile.”
“Then our job is to keep him smiling,” said David Linton practically.
There came a high-pitched voice in the hall, and Mrs. West swept in, her husband following at her heels. To Norah’s inexperienced eyes, she was more gorgeous than the Queen of Sheba, in a dress of sequins that glittered and flashed with every movement. Sarah, who had assisted in her toilette, reported to the kitchen that she didn’t take much stock in a dress that was moulting its sequins for all the world like an old hen; but Norah saw no deficiencies, and was greatly impressed by her guest’s magnificence. She was also rather overcome by her eloquence, which had the effect of making her feel speechless. Not that that greatly mattered, as Mrs. West never noticed whether any one else happened to speak or remain silent, so long as they did not happen to drown her own voice.
“Such a lovely room!” she twittered. “So comfortable. And I feel sure there is an exquisite view. And a fire in one’s bedroom—in war-time! Dear me, I feel I ought to protest, only I haven’t sufficient moral courage; and those pine logs are too delicious. Perhaps you are burning your own timber?—ah, I thought so. That makes it easier for me to refrain from prodding up my moral courage—ha, ha!”
Norah hunted for a reply, and failed to find one.
“And you are actually Australians!” Mrs. West ran on. “So interesting! I always do think that Australians are so original—so quaintly original. It must be the wild life you lead. So unlike dear, quiet little England. Bushrangers, and savage natives, and gold-mining. How I should like to see it all!”
“Oh, you would find other attractions as well, Mrs. West,” Mr. Linton told her. “The ‘wild life in savage places’ phase of Australian history is rather a back number.”