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What’s the use? If we’re honest, we know them already.” She slid down from the saddle. “Good-by, and thank you… for a very pleasant afternoon.”

She left him standing in front of the garage and made her way up towards the house.

On the polo ground—which was merely a tolerably flat paddock across the river beyond the woolshed—the last spell before tea-time was now in progress.

Holmes, Rodney Marsh, Waring and Bill Ralston, constituted the Tirau team playing against Omoana. The Coast Team—for the Wairiri Tournament in Christmas week—would consist of four of these eight players. This was not polo as played at Ranelagh. Owing to the roughness of the ground it was a great deal more dangerous; and although all the players were magnificent horsemen and strong hitters, some of the ponies were unschooled and green. Waring was the only one of the two teams who was faultlessly turned out in regulation pole kit. Most of the others wore old riding breeches and loose shirts.

About fifty spectators—in cars and buggies drawn up along the boundary line—watched the game, following every stroke and galloping rush of the players with eager interest. A fire had been lighted by Ann and Vera Holmes at a little distance from the cars and nearer the river bank; and two tin billies, blackened by the smoke, were hung above it, gipsy fashion. The referee’s whistle announced half-time, and the sweating ponies were handed over to a few attendant lads to be walked about the field, while the players refreshed themselves with tea.