ound for a metaphor--'Muscat
grapes and pineapple.'

'Or cooked-up information from heads of departments; or got-up shows of
agricultural, mining and other industries. Or trips to the Bay to see
the model island prison in which our weary criminals rehabilitate their
enfeebled systems by cool sea-breezes and generous diet. Or ministerial
picnics to experimental cotton and sugar plantations the size of your
garden to prove that all tropical products can be raised to perfection
without mentioning the difficulty in a White Australia of finding the
labour to do it.'

'Oh, don't rub it in, Colin. I'm only a special reporter, and even
special reporters can't know everything. Now, do just sit down and let
me ask you questions. And first of all, do you want a whiskey peg or a
cup of tea, or what?--I've had my late breakfast.'

'I'll have a smoke, please. Been swearing off store baccy now I'm down
from the Bush. I'm trying hard to smoke cigarettes like one of your
English toffs.'

He pulled out a copper cigarette case with some hieroglyphical letters
and numbers stamped on it, which he regarded with a humorous smile.

'Only cost a shilling, but now I've my brand across, it looks fine. You
know that by the Brands Act you've got to have a number and two letters
on every head of stock--My brand's the Mark of the Beast 666 C.K. See?'

He fixed his cigarette into a new amber mouthpiece, made a wry face,
and began to smoke.

'I don't think much of your quality of cigarettes,' said Mrs Gildea.
'On the whole, I prefer your tobacco.'

'All right. Give me my pipe any day--' And he pitched away the
cigarette and produced an ancient pipe, which he filled with tobacco
from an india-rubber pouch and lighted. 'Now, fire away.'

'Not for a little bit yet. You must read my rejected article and my
official instructions, and then you'll have some grasp of the subjects
I want information upon. Here they are--Mr Gibbs first.'

She handed him her editor's letters and pushed a small pile of
manuscript towards his elbow.

'There. It will take you about a quarter of an hour to digest all that;
and meanwhile, if you don't mind the noise, I shall go on typing
something I've got to send off by to-morrow's mail.'

She settled herself at the typewriter, her back partially turned to
him. The subject matter of what she was doing took all her attention.
She worked hard for about ten minutes, hearing sub-consciously the
rustle of papers under his h