“Well, it is better than inside—the house is heated right through,” said the woman. “Wooden houses cool quickly, but they heat like an oven, don’t they? I’ll bring out chairs.” She disappeared—her movements were curiously quick—and came out laden. They sat on the verandah, with the pelting rain beating all round them, and a sense of wet coolness gradually coming over the hot atmosphere.
She was anxious to talk—this gaunt, hungry-eyed woman of the Bush. She went from one subject to another almost feverishly, asking them a hundred questions—of home, of school, of the life that was so busy hundreds of miles away from her lonely home in the timber. And always her eyes wandered restlessly, as if she were seeking. Once she failed to answer a question, staring before her with a strained look that was half expectancy and half despair. Then she came back to attention with a start, and begged their pardon.
“I—I was listening,” she said. “I didn’t quite hear what you were saying.”
The storm began to wear itself out after a while, and she took them into the house, saying that they would be glad of a wash and brush up while she made some tea. She showed them into a neat little bedroom, and brought a brimming can of hot water.
“Just you make yourselves quite at home,” she said. “Don’t hurry; I’ll call you when I got tea made.” She went out, closing the door.
It was a bright little room, with a cheap blue paper on the walls, and crisp, fresh curtains at the window. Everything was poor, but spotlessly clean.
“Isn’t it nice?” Jean said. “It smells of lavender and things!”
“And as if the window were always open,” said Norah, approvingly. “I like it—and I like her, too. Don’t you, Jean?”
“Yes—I do,” Jean said, slowly. “She—she’s a bit queer though, isn’t she?”
“She’s got a scared sort of look,” Norah said, trying to find words. “Perhaps she’s had a lot of trouble. Ever so many women in the Bush do, I think. But I like her eyes, though they’re so tired.”