garden, which was full of the scent of stephanotis, verbena, and Cape jasmine. Mrs. Jem had started music in the drawing-room while the dining-room, which was a great room with a polished floor, was being got ready for dancing. Elsie had already a little crowd of men round her. Several were Leichardt's Town admirers. The old fever for admiration was upon her. From one she accepted a flower. To another she gave one. She had smiles for all. Then Trant began to sing. A vague emotion seized her, a sudden irresistible longing for the deeper drama of life. There was so much beyond all this flirting and dancing and dressing, so much of which she was totally ignorant. Even Trant with the coarse passion in his voice represented a world of feeling that she had never entered. She became silent, and would not answer the young men's banal remarks.
"Hush—go away, I want to listen," she said, and sat there, her profile outlined against the dark night, the light from the drawing-room upon her serious face and shining eyes and slender girlish form; she sat with her hands folded, quite still. Someone came and leaned against the verandah post by her side. She knew without looking at him that it was Blake. She knew, too, that he was watching her, and the feeling gave her an odd thrill and presently drew her eyes to his. Trant's songs ceased; and his accompanist went on playing desultory chords.
Mr. Blake said suddenly: "Do you do anything—I mean in the way of music?"
"No," answered Elsie. "I do nothing—nothing at least that gives people pleasure."
"I should say that you did a great deal which gave people pleasure. You exist—that is something."
"I wish you wouldn't pay me compliments in that unmeaning way. I hate it. It is like everybody else."
"You would like me then to be unlike everybody else. Thank you. I like you to say that."
"Why?"
"Because it shows that you think about me."
"I don't see that that matters."
