“I can’t come this evening. There is a good deal to do. But I can easily show you where to go.”
“Don’t let him get lost in the bush,” spoke Mrs. Lane. “He is only a tourist, you know!” She turned her head as they came out of a belt of timber. “Oh, what a charming house!”
“That is our place,” Robin said.
Hill Farm had indeed a look of charm in the evening sunlight. Against a sky tinged faintly with rosy pink the white house nestled in the deep green of garden and orchard, ending in the snowy gleam of the newly-painted front fence. The slope before it stretched to the creek, over which they crossed on a rough-hewn bridge: behind it cleared paddocks stretched upwards merging into the stately timbered hills.
“I’ll have to take you round to the back,” Robin said, as old Roany walked slowly up the little hill. “The front gate is too narrow: besides, I painted the fence only this morning, and when I paint anything it takes two or three days to dry. So please be careful, Dr. Lane, if you go out that way. There’s Mother.”
Mrs. Hurst was waiting by the back gate, tall and fresh-looking in her simple grey frock. She greeted them pleasantly, exclaiming with sympathy over the poor, bandaged foot: and presently Mrs. Lane found herself installed in a wide room, smelling faintly of lavender, and exquisitely clean. The windows overlooked the western stretch of great, tree-covered hills. A quaint old-fashioned paper covered the walls, bright with little trails of roses; there were fresh roses on the dressing-table and mantelshelf. A dainty tea-tray stood on a table covered with a snowy cloth.
“I have everything ready for doctoring the foot,” Mrs. Hurst said. “But I was sure you poor things would like a cup of tea first.”
Mrs. Lane heaved a sigh of contentment.
“I could almost weep at the sight of a teapot,” she said. “My husband made me drink whisky, which I hate—I tried to get rid of the taste by eating a gum-leaf, so that my mouth is now a miserable blend of alcohol and eucalyptus! No, no sugar, thank you. Dear me, how good that is!” She looked rather like a mischievous child as she smiled at Mrs. Hurst over her cup.
Dr. Lane stirred his tea reflectively.