As they walked forward, a lady came through the garden gate, and met them—receiving the guest with cordiality—then turning to her husband.
“You’re rather late, Ned! What kept you? I’m always nervous when you’re out at that end of the run!”
“Well, if you must know, I found the grey horse’s mob, which I’ve been tracking for some time—and got them all—a real bit of luck. Then I fell in with Mr. Blount, who was looking for that smart cob that came in with our horses this morning. Luckily for him, as it turns out.”
“So it was. Did you shoot the poor things? I always feel so sorry for them.”
“Of course I did; they’re more trouble than all the other ‘brumbies’ on the run, galloping about, smashing fences, destroying dams, and wasting grass, for the use of which I pay the Crown rent.”
“Yes, a farthing an acre!” laughed the lady. “All the same, it’s very cruel—don’t you think so, Mr. Blount? What would they say in England of such barbarous work?”
“It would raise a scandal, Mrs. Bruce; but everything depends on the value of the animal, apart from the sentiment.”
Thus conversing, they walked through the garden, which was encompassed by an orchard of venerable age. It stretched to the river bank, along which a line of magnificent willows partly over-arched the stream with graceful, trailing foliage, while the interlaced roots performed valuable service in supporting the banks in time of flood.
Passing along the broad verandah, vine and trailer-festooned, they entered a hall, of which the door seemed permanently open.
The walls were garnished with whips, guns on racks (where Mr. Bruce carefully placed his redoubtable Winchester), the great wings of the mountain eagle, the scarlet and jet tail-feathers of the black macaw, and the sulphur-coloured crests of his white relative. These, and other curios of the Waste, relieved the apartment of any appearance of bareness, while avoiding incongruity of ornamentation. Passing into a large, comfortably-furnished room, where preparations for the evening meal were in evidence, the host pointed to a spirit-stand on the sideboard, and suggesting that a tot of whisky would not be inappropriate after a long day, invited his guest to join him. This offer Mr. Blount frankly accepted, as, besides being tired with a long, dragging ride, he felt nearly as cold as if he had been deer-shooting in the Scottish Highlands, instead of this southern mountain land.