Poor Richard Lovat wearied himself to death struggling with the problem of himself, and calling it Australia. There was no actual need for him to struggle with Australia: he must have done it in the hedonistic sense, to please himself. But it wore him to rags.
Harriet sat up and began dusting the sand from her coat—Lovat did likewise. Then they rose to be going back to the tram-car. There was a motor-car standing on the sand of the road near the gate of the end house. The end house was called St Columb, and Somers' heart flew to Cornwall. It was quite a nice little place, standing on a bluff of sand sideways above the lagoon.
"I wouldn't mind that," said Harriet, looking up at St Columb.
But Somers did not answer. He was shut against any of these humiliating little bungalows. "Love's Harbour" he was just passing by, and it was "4 Sale." It would be. He ploughed grimly through the sand. "Arcady"—"Stella Maris"—"Racketty-Coo."
"I say!" called a voice from behind.
It was Mrs Callcott running unevenly over the sand after them, the colour high in her cheeks. She wore a pale grey crêpe de chine dress and grey suède shoes. Some distance behind her Jack Callcott was following, in his shirt-sleeves.
"Fancy you being here!" gasped Mrs Callcott, and Harriet was so flustered she could only cry:
"Oh, how do you do!"—and effusively shake hands, as if she were meeting some former acquaintance on Piccadilly. The shaking hands quite put Mrs Callcott off her track. She felt it almost an affront, and went red. Her husband sauntered up and put his hands in his pockets, to avoid mistakes.
"Ha, what are you doing here," he said to the Somers pair. "Wouldn't you like a cup of tea?"
Harriet glanced at Richard Lovat. He was smiling faintly.
"Oh, we should love it," she replied to Mr Callcott. "But where?—have you got a house here?"
"My sister has the end house," said he.
"Oh, but—will she want us?" cried Harriet, backing out.
The Callcotts stood for a moment silent.
