“I don’t understand,” she said. “It doesn’t make any difference really if they are in the house while you are in the whare. For you are a gentleman too, Guy.”
“Effie, I think that I am not—or I would not be here. I am just drifting.”
“Well, keep on drifting! I like you much better that way than when you want to stand on the other side of the road and touch your cap. And please, please don’t bother about all the others days, Guy. There’s just now—nothing else ever matters. And can’t you fancy that the broom and manuka in the gully are buttercups and daisies, and we are just children home from school? And there’s a wee, wee rabbit over on the sand-ridge! Come and we’ll chase him home! Come!”
She darted across the tussock slope; and Randal picked up his gorse-knife and followed, the after-glow dark on his face.
Tod was hoarse with delight when Randal came into the whare at the dusk.
“Begorra; it’s the fat luck laid thick ontu us this toime,” he crowed. “Git to your packin’ then, Randal, me boyo. Wirrasthrew, that niver a blackthorn grows woild in this bush at all! Cud I break Pug Chaney’s head wid the fisht of me, du ye think now?”
“What is it?” demanded Randal.
Steve explained briefly.
