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For the first time Ann heard his voice husky and uneven.

“Of course,” she answered. “I oughtn’t to have allowed it, I know. But it seemed easier than an undignified scuffle.”

“It meant...nothing to you, then?”

“Quite as little as it meant to you.”

“By God, if it meant as much...” He broke off, and Ann moved a step or two towards the hotel. She would never risk being alone with him again, she decided. He walked beside her in silence, his face looking rather white and strained in the moonlight.

They were abreast of the hotel, when out of the doors, and across the veranda into the moonlight roadway, surged a crowd of shouting, gesticulating men and women. A fight was in progress. Again Ann knew amoment of bitter heart-sickness, for she saw that the two sparring and hitting furiously were Rodney Marsh and Hicky, the big half-caste. Was this the man she thought of more than all the others? This drunken, dishevelled shepherd? She stood quite still, unnoticed amongst the excited crowd. Waring was touching her arm.

“Come away,” he said, “this is no place for you.”

“Go back to the hall if you want to,” she said sharply, “and leave me.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

The fight went on. No one interfered with the two men. At last, with one terrific blow, Marsh felled his opponent. The crowd gathered round the fallen man, and Ann knew that she was separated from Waring, and standing close beside the victor.

She laid her hand on his arm.

“Rodney, will you go home... now?” she said.