The bungalow was pleasant, a large room facing the sea, with verandahs and other little rooms opening off. There were many family photographs, and a framed medal and ribbon and letter praising the first Trewhella. Mrs Trewhella was alert and watchful, and decided to be genteel. So the party sat around in the basket chairs and on the settles under the windows, instead of sitting at table for tea. And William James silently but willingly carried round the bread and butter and the cakes. He was a queer young man, with an Irish-looking face, rather pale, an odd kind of humour in his grey eye and in the corners of his pursed mouth. But he spoke never a word. It was hard to decide his age--probably about thirty--a little younger than his wife. He seemed silently pleased about something--perhaps his marriage. Somers noticed that the whites of his eyes were rather bloodshot. He had been in Australia since he was a boy of fifteen--he had come with his brother--from St Columb, near Newquay--St Columb Major. So much Somers elicited. “Well, how do you like Sydney?” came the inevitable question from Mrs Trewhella. “The harbour, I think, is wonderful,” came Somers’ invariable answer. “It is a fine harbour, isn’t it. And Sydney is a fine town. Oh yes, I’ve lived there all my life.” The conversation languished. Callcott was silent, and William James seemed as if he were never anything else. Even the little girl only fluttered into a whisper and went still again. Everybody was a little embarrassed, rather stiff: too genteel, or not genteel enough. And the men seemed absolute logs. “You don’t think much of Australia, then?” said Jack to Somers. “Why,” answered the latter, “how am I to judge! I haven’t even seen the fringe of it.” “Oh, it’s mostly fringe,” said Jack. “But it hasn’t made a good impression on you?” “I don’t know yet. My feelings are mixed. The _country_ seems to me to have a fascination--strange--” “But you don’t take to the Aussies, at first sight. Bit of a collision between their aura and yours,” smiled Jack. “Maybe that’s what it is,” said Somers. “That’s a useful way of putting it. I can’t help my aura colliding, can I?” “Of course you can’t. And if it’s a tender sort of aura, of course it feels the bump.” “Oh, don’t talk about it,” cried Harriet. “He must be just one big bump, by the way he grumbles.” They all laughed--perhaps a trifle uneasily. “I thought so,” said Jack. “What made you come here? Thought you’d like to write about it?” “I thought I might like to live here--and write here,” replied Somers smiling. “Write about the bushrangers and the heroine lost in the bush and wandering into a camp of bullies?” said Jack. “Maybe,” said Somers. “Do you mind if I ask you what sort of things you do write?” said Jack, with some delicacy. “Oh--poetry--essays.” “Essays about what?” “Oh--rubbish mostly.” There was a moment’s pause.