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 any more than folks in town.”

“That’s right, Ned,” put in Connie, suddenly recollecting that she was chilly.  “Will you hand me my cloak, please?  You see,” she went on as he brought it, “Harry imagines every bushman as just six feet high, proportionally broad, with bristling black beard streaked with grey, longish hair, bushy eyebrows, bloodshot eyes, moleskins, jean shirt, leathern belt, a black pipe, a swag—­you call it ‘swag,’ don’t you?—­ over his shoulders, and a whisky bottle in his hand whenever he is ‘blowing in his cheque,’ which is what Nellie says you call ’going on the spree.’  Complimentary, isn’t it?”

“Connie’s libelling both me and my typical bushman,” said Stratton, lighting his cigar, having passed the box around.  Ned was laughing against his will.  Connie had mimicked her husband’s imaginary bushman in a kindly humorous way that was very droll.

The musical debate had started up again behind them.  Ford and George argued for the traditional rendering of music.  Nellie and Arty battled for the musical zeit-geist, the national sense that sees through mere notation to the spirit that breathes behind.  They waxed warm and threw authorities and quotations about, hardly waiting for each other to finish what they wished to say.  Connie turned round to the disputants and threw herself impetuously into the quarrel, strengthening with her wit and trained criticism the cause of the zeit-geist.  Stratton, to Ned’s surprise, putting his arms over her shoulders, opposed her arguments and controverted her assertions with unsparing keenness.  Josie leaned back on the lounge and smiled across at Ned.  The smile said plainly:  “It really doesn’t matter, does it?” Ned, fuming inwardly, thought it certainly did not.  What a waste of words when the world outside needed deeds!  This verbiage was as empty as the tobacco smoke which began to hang about the room in bluish clouds.