They were alone at last on the veranda, with night and the vast distances enfolding them. The air was close and hot, the sky banked with storm clouds, and, occasionally, there were flashes of sheet lightning and low growls of thunder. Before long the head-station was very quiet. Harris had inspected the hide-house and, having assured himself of the safety of his prisoner, had retired to the veranda room, making a great parade of keeping his door open, his gun loaded, and his clothes on, ready for any emergency. Joe Casey had gone to his hut, the Chinaman and the Malay boy to theirs, and Maggie, the woman servant, to her own tiny room wedged in between the new house and the kitchen wing.
But it was all early. At that hour, Maule laughingly reminded Lady Bridget, the dining world of London would scarcely have reached the dessert stage.
She would not waste time on banalities.
'I've been waiting to tell you something. My mind is quite made up. I can't go on like this any longer. You must go away to-morrow.'
'To-morrow!' he echoed in dismay.
'Yes. I've thought it out. You don't know the country, but the mailman will be here to-morrow, and he can show you the road.'
'You are very kind.... Why are you so anxious to get rid of me?'
'Surely you understand. You made me a scene yesterday. You'd go on making me scenes.'
'And you?'
She gave a hard little laugh. 'Oh! I—don't want to play any more.'