drawings by Australian artists. Among them were two heads of Dane himself, one the much-reproduced pen and ink drawing by Norman Lindsay, a wonderful piece of work, and a fine sketch in oils by Sid Long.
The one French door opening onto the verandah, and the front window were curtained with silken stuff, the colour of burnished copper, which carried on the tint in the unpolished rimu walls. There were brilliant spots of colour here and there along the tops of the bookshelves in bits of Chinese porcelain, and there was colour in three Persian rugs on the floor, and in the books, but after coming out of the other this looked a very quiet room, and in spite of its diverse objects it was a homogeneous whole.
Dane lifted his hands from the keyboard on hearing his dogs bark outside.
“Mr. Benton coming in,” said Lee from the doorway.
“All right. Bring him in here.”
Rather glad of a diversion he got up and turned to meet Roger, who came in mud-spattered as from a long ride.
“Heard yesterday you were back, Barrington. I’m pretty grubby.” Roger looked doubtfully at his elegant host and at the room, now coming to light, as Lee lit lamps and candles.
“You won’t hurt anything. Sit down.” Dane indicated one of the leather chairs, and took the other himself. “How’s the campaign going?”
“All right till yesterday, curse it!”
“What happened yesterday? I haven’t been in to the town for days.”
“Lorrimer went to the hospital, down with pneumonia.”
Dane looked into the light of the match he had just lit. “That’s hard luck, certainly,” he said sympathetically.
