Maiden looked down the steep trend of bracken and flax to the tussock of the gully where Lou was cutting out a beast with Moody and Beckett to swing the mob. The lights were soft and shining in violet and amber and pale gold, and all the delicate sensuous scents of flowering cabbage tree and crushed raupo by the hoof-tramped creek rose up to them.
“Lou’s the cleverest chap I knows, in his own place,” said Steve. “His own place. An’ that’s atop o’ a horse. Maiden. When he gets ter interferin’ wi’ another chap he’s got ter learn sense. See?”
Maiden rested her elbow on a kowhai stump, tilting her chin with a delicate forefinger.
“No,” she said deliberately. “I don’t see.”
“I thought yer wouldn’t. That’s why I got ter larn him instead.”
Maiden flashed upright, white with fury.
“How dare you, Steve! how dare you! I don’t know what you mean———”
“Then I don’t see no call to git waxy ’bout it, is there?”
Maiden halted; kicked at a bunch of nodding evening primroses; then laughed.
“If you’re comin’ to the Oddfellows’ dance nex’ Friday I got the first dance goin’ begging, Steve,” she said.
“Thought as yer b’longed ter the Army now.”
