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Then Mr. and Mrs. Rodney Marsh might live in Wairiri itself, not in the country, she reflected quickly. Mrs. Ford would like that—to have Stephanie always near her.

“Are you going to accept?” she asked.

“I don’t know—I haven’t decided yet. I’d rather be working on my own.”

He paused, and then went on abruptly:

“I was in the billiard-room for a minute this evening, when you and Waring were sitting on the veranda. I heard him making love to you.”

“Really.”

“Are you going to marry him?”

“Didn’t you wait to hear the rest of the conversation?”

“I didn’t wait at all,” he returned fiercely. “I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

“Weren’t you? It rather sounded as though you were.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I haven’t the smallest intention of answering it.”

“Are you nothing better than a . . . a little flirt?”

“And are you nothing better than an excessively ill-mannered young man?”

“Yes. You’ve told me before that I’m ignorant, and arrogant, and conceited.”

“Very well, I’ll add now that you’re impertinent as well.”

“What else do you expect from a drover? A man whose position, you say, isn’t equal to yours?”

The furious turmoil of Ann’s angry heart was suddenly stilled. She was conscious of a sharp stab of remorse.

“Rodney,” she said quietly, “I’ve never told you