“What do you do with the skins?”
“Send them to Melbourne.”
“What—are they worth anything? We never keep ours.”
“Don’t suppose you do,” said Robin, carelessly. Her tone classed Barry finally among the people who toil not, neither do they spin: and somehow, Barry fully understood that it was not a compliment.
“Never thought of it,” he responded, equally carelessly. “Who gets yours ready for you?”
“Myself. Seven—eight—nine,” counted Robin.
“You don’t skin rabbits?”
“Yes, I do. Why not?”
“Didn’t think it was a girl’s job, that’s all.” Barry whittled a stick with an unconscious air. “Of course, I suppose country girls are different.”
“How do you mean different?”