“They put that yarn in the _Bulletin_. And some chap wrote and said it was a stiff ’un, and the wild cat must be descended from escaped tame cats, because this country has no pussy aboriginal of any sort. Couldn’t say myself, except I saw that tiger-cat, and it didn’t look much like the son of a homely tissey, either. Wonder what put the thing in my head. Perhaps Kangaroo’s fat belly.” “He’s not so very fat,” said Somers. “No, he’s not got what you’d call a corporation and a whole urban council in front of him. Neither is he flat just there, like you and me.” Kangaroo arrived the next day at Torestin with a large bunch of violets in his hand: pale, expensive, late winter violets. He took off his hat to Harriet and bowed quite deep, without shaking hands. He had been a student at Munich. “Oh, how do you do!” cried Harriet. “Please don’t look at the horrid room, we leave in the morning.” Kangaroo looked vacantly around. He was not interested, so he saw nothing: he might as well have been blind. “It’s a very nice room,” he said. “May I give you the violets? The poet said you liked having them about.” She took them in her two hands, smelling their very faint fragrance. “They’re not like English violets--or those big dark fellows in Italy,” he said. “But still we persuade ourselves that they _are_ violets.” “They’re lovely. I feel I could warm my hands over them,” she said. “And now they’re quite happy violets,” he replied, smiling his rare, sweet smile at her. “Why are you taking the poet away from Sydney?” “Lovat? He wants to go.” “Lovat! What a good name to call him by!” He turned to Somers, looking at him closely. “May I call you Lovat?” “Better that than _the poet_,” said Somers, lifting his nose slightly with aversion. The other man laughed, but softly and happily. “His muse he’s not in love with,” he murmured to himself. “No, he prefers his own name,” said Somers. “But supposing now,” said Kangaroo, as if alert and interested, “your name was Cooley: Benjamin Cooley--Ben, for short. You’d prefer even Kangaroo to that.” “In Australia the kangaroo is the king of beasts,” said Somers. “_The kangaroo is the king of beasts,_ _Inviting the other ones out to feasts_,” sang the big man, continuing: “Won’t you both come to dinner with the king of beasts? Won’t you come too, Mrs Somers?” “You know you only want Lovat, to talk your _man’s_ stuff.” “I’m not a man, I’m a kangaroo. Besides, yesterday I hadn’t seen you. If I had known, my dear Somers, that your wife, who is at this moment in her room hastily changing her dress, was such a beautiful person--I don’t say woman merely--I’d have invited you for her sake, and not for your own.” “Then _I_ wouldn’t have come,” said Somers. “Hear them, what a haughty pair of individuals! I suppose you expect the king of beasts to go down on his knees to you, like the rest of democratic kings to their constituents. Won’t you get ready, Mrs Somers?”