"

Ned's thoughts were in tumult, as he sat balancing his spoon on his cup
after forcing himself to swallow the, to him, unpleasant drink that the
others seemed to relish so. There were no conspirators here, that was
certain. Nellie he could understand being one, even with the red rose at
her neck, but not this friendly chattering woman whose bare arms and
shoulders shimmered in the tinted light and from whose silk dress a
subtle perfume stole all over the room; and most certainly not this
pretty, mild-looking girl in sailor-costume who appeared from the
previous conversation to have passed the evening swinging in a hammock
with her sweetheart. And the men! Why, they got excited over music and
enraptured over the "tone" of somebody's painting, while Geisner had
actually gone back to the book-case, coffee cup in hand, and stood there
nibbling a biscuit and earnestly studying the titles of books. It was
pleasant, of course, too pleasant. It seemed a sin to enjoy life like
this on the very edge of the horrible pit in which the poor wore
festering like worms in an iron pot. Was it for this that Nellie had
brought him here? To idle away an evening among well-meaning people who
were "interested in the Labour movement" and in some strange way, some
whim probably, had taken to this working girl who in her plain black
dress queened them all. He looked round the room and hated it. To his
sickened soul its beauty blasphemed the lot of the toilers, insulted the
wretchedness, the foulness, the hideousness, that he had seen this very
day, that he had known and struggled against, all unconsciously,
throughout his wayward life. And Geisner, Geisner at whom Nellie was
looking fondly, Geisner who he supposed had written a book or a bit of
poetry or could play the flute, and who raved about the spoiling of a bit
of an island when the happiness of millions upon millions was being
spoiled--well, he would just like to tell Geisner what he thought of
him in emphatic bush lingo. Nellie, herself, seemed peacefully happy. Yet
Mrs. Stratton had accused her of "worrying." When Ned thought of this he
felt as he did when fording a strange creek, running a banker. He did not
know what was underneath.

"Try a cigar, Hawkins?" asked Stratton, pushing a box towards him.

"Thank you, but I don't smoke."

"Don't you really! Do you know I thought all bushmen were great smokers."

"Some are and some aren't," said Ned. "We're not all built to one pattern