"Damn that wretched fellow! I'll hunt him off the place to-morrow."
A girl and two men were his company. The girl sat between the men, and the three people leaned back in canvas chairs. The nearest man, who was dressed in riding clothes, was young—no more than thirty-five. He was tall, and of a wiry make, and his skin was tanned. His face was clean shaven, with a trace of temper in it, while he had the manner of one well able to take care of himself. He gave his attention to a pipe. He was known through all that country as James Power of Kaloona Station.
The girl was dressed in white. She was not thirty years old, but the climate had not spared her. She was not tall, she was rather slight, and her face challenged no second glance; but he who looked closely might find thought behind her eyes, and humour in her mouth. The carriage of her head showed courage. Here was a girl with thoughts to think and with dreams to dream. A girl with a stout heart, who would be ready to drink deeply from the cups of joy and sorrow: a mate worth winning. Maud Neville was her name, and Neville of Surprise was her father. Just now, with both hands, she marked the fall of the cornet notes which continued their troubled passage.
The other man smoked a cigar in heavy content. He was growing middle-aged and stout. He breathed with deep breaths, but the sultry night excused him. A dark moustache covered his mouth. His face was filling with flesh; and his eyes were cold though rather wise. Just now he was well pleased with the world. He was John King, accountant of Surprise.
The girl spoke. Her voice was full of lights and shades.
"Don't always be growling at Wells, father. He maddened me once; but I have accepted him long ago. He will learn something else soon. The cornet is new. He got it two or three coaches ago. Mr. King, do you remember the concertina last summer? The heat unstuck it or something. That's why he sent for the cornet. One day I asked him why he was so persistent, and he put his hands on his chest very grandly like this and said—'Miss Neville, it is in here. It must come out.'"
The old man screwed up his face. "He can tell the flies that to-morrow when he takes the track."
King took the cigar from his mouth very deliberately.
"Maybe we listen to more than a poor storeman—a lover, a poet rather. Who can say? A lover whose beloved has wandered afar: a poet born tongueless, whose breast must break with fullness. Then what do our ears matter, while he finds relief?"