Lunch had been in the ice-chest; the twins, enjoying crisp salad and firm, quivering jelly, openly envied the township opportunities of combating the hot weather.
“You just don’t know how lucky you are!” Jo said. “We have all sorts of bush dodges, of course; Coolgardie drip-safes and holes in the ground, and all that sort of thing; but, especially since this horrible sticky weather began, nothing seems to make much difference. The butter’s always oil, and everything else is warm and flabby. I’d love to take a pat of this butter home to Mother! Her appetite has gone to simply nothing.”
“You can have the butter!” said Mrs. Lawrence, laughing. “But why not send your mother in to us for a week? We should love to have her, and we’d take great care of her.”
“She wouldn’t leave home, I’m afraid,” Jo said. “Father wants her to go down to the Harlands’, at the Lakes’ Entrance, but she won’t go. I expect it’s because she doesn’t like to leave Father, when he’s so worried over the drought.”
“She’d be wiser to go,” said the doctor, gravely. “No one knows how long this drought is going to hold out. And your mother has had a long spell of it now.”
They lounged in the darkened drawing-room after lunch: Maisie and Eva played snatches from the new musical comedy, and there were English illustrated papers to look at, full of pictures of snow and ice, which seemed like a fairy-tale in the throbbing heat. Afternoon tea came in early, to suit the twins; and when it was over they said good-bye, and walked down to the post-office to get the mail before going to the stables for the ponies. As they came out of the post-office, the Barrabri policeman detached himself from a knot of men and came to meet them. He wore a look of unusual importance.
“Good afternoon, Miss Weston.” He looked straight between them, a method of greeting with which the twins were familiar among those who were puzzled by their uncanny resemblance. “You came in this morning, didn’t you? Did you happen to see any unusual character about?”
“No,” said the twins. “We didn’t notice anyone.”
“Not a man, for instance?”
“No one we didn’t know,” Jean answered. “Is it the escaped prisoner, Mr. Ransome?”