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“And how should I know about night-pens and damp wool and sheep?”

Marsh was looking down at her, the laughter in his eyes answering the mischief in her own.

“What are you doing down here alone, anyway?”

“I’m not alone. I came with Mrs. Holmes and Mr. Waring.”

“Oh, Waring!” His tone of easy contempt made Ann look up at him sharply.

“You don’t like Mr. Waring?”

He shrugged.

“He’s not my boss. We’re in the polo team together. Beyond that I don’t bother my head about him, one way or the other.”

A horseman passed them, coming from the Maoris’ camp. He slowed up a little, peering at the two figures in the half-light.

“Isn’t that Hicky?”

“Yes.” His face had darkened.

“And you don’t like Hicky, either?”

“No,” he answered shortly.

The big half-caste had ridden on a little way. Now he turned and came back. Close beside the gate he dismounted.

“Good evening,” he said to Ann, raising his hat.

Ann murmured, “Good evening,” in reply, but she did not at all appreciate the familiar leer with which he eyed her.

Turning to Marsh he said something in Maori, and Marsh, without one moment’s hesitation, hit him under the jaw, and knocked him down. His horse pulled back, snorting, and then galloped off with trailing bridle across the paddock. In a second Hicky was on his feet, and the battle was joined.