“Somers--S-O-M-E-R-S.” Harriet spelled it out. “Oh, Somers!” exclaimed the neighbour woman, with a gawky little jerk, like a schoolgirl. “Mr and Mrs Somers,” she reiterated, with a little laugh. “That’s it,” said Harriet. “I saw you come yesterday, and I wondered--we hadn’t heard the name of who was coming.” She was still rather gawky and school-girlish in her manner, half shy, half brusque. “No, I suppose not,” said Harriet, wondering why the girl didn’t tell her own name now. “That’s your husband who has the motor-bike?” said Harriet. “Yes, that’s right. That’s him. That’s my husband, Jack, Mr Callcott.” “Mr Callcott, oh!” said Harriet, as if she were mentally abstracted trying to spell the word. Somers, in the little passage inside his house, heard all this with inward curses. “That’s done it!” he groaned to himself. He’d got neighbours now. And sure enough, in a few minutes came Harriet’s gushing cries of joy and admiration: “Oh, how lovely! how marvellous! but can they really be dahlias? I’ve never seen such dahlias! they’re really too beautiful! But you shouldn’t give them me, you shouldn’t.” “Why not?” cried Mrs Callcott in delight. “So many. And isn’t it a pity to cut them?” This, rather wistfully, to the masculine silence of Jack. “Oh no, they want cutting as they come, or the blooms gets smaller,” said Jack, masculine and benevolent. “And scent!--they have scent!” cried Harriet, sniffing at her velvety bouquet. “They have a little--not much though. Flowers don’t have much scent in Australia,” deprecated Mrs Callcott. “Oh, I must show them to my husband,” cried Harriet, half starting from the fence. Then she lifted up her voice: “Lovat!” she called. “Lovat! You must come. Come here! Come and see! Lovat!” “What?” “Come. Come and see.” This dragged the bear out of his den: Mr Somers, twisting sour smiles of graciousness on his pale, bearded face, crossed the verandah and advanced towards the division fence, on the other side of which stood his Australian neighbour in shirt-sleeves, with a comely young wife very near to him, whilst on this side stood Harriet with a bunch of pink and purple ragged dahlias, and an expression of joyous friendliness, which Somers knew to be false, upon her face. “Look what Mrs Callcott has given me! Aren’t they exquisite?” cried Harriet, rather exaggerated. “Awfully nice,” said Somers, bowing slightly to Mrs Callcott, who looked uneasy, and to Mr Callcott--otherwise Jack. “Got here all right in the hansom, then?” said Jack. Somers laughed--and he could be charming when he laughed--as he met the other man’s eye. “My wrist got tired, propping up the luggage all the way,” he replied. “Ay, there’s not much waste ground in a hansom. You can’t run up a spare bed in the parlour, so to speak. But it saved you five bob.” “Oh, at least ten, between me and a Sydney taxi driver.”