Carter pointed the finger of derision at her. "O vanity," said he. "You're going to tidy your hair, and smarten your frock just for the sake of old Cappie Image and the plump Balgarnie. By the way, now that you are an engaged young woman, are you going to let those genial old ruffians take you on their knees and kiss you, just in the old sweet way? Of course, don't mind me if you'd like it so." "Pouf!" said Laura, "they've both known me ever since I was a baby, but I'll be as distant with them as you like if you feel jealous, sir." "I think I'll wash off some of the battle scars myself," said Carter. "One looks a bit melodramatic in this filthy, smeary mess. Not to mention uncomfortable. I suppose, by the way, somebody will turn up to pay a polite call. They'll judge that something's wrong when they see that all the factory boats and canoes have been cleared out of the creek." Even White-Man's-Trouble stole palm oil and attended to his toilette in honor of the expected visit, and it was a very gleaming and oily Krooboy in some clean (stolen) pyjama trousers of Slade's that showed Captain Image, and his passenger, and purser up the stair. Laura and Carter were there, spruce and smart, to receive them, and Laura said, "Kate! I knew you'd come," and ran forward and shook the passenger by the hand. "There, you see, George," she said over her shoulder, "how accurately I can keep a secret." "Hullo, Carter, me lad!" said Captain Image. "Glad to see you looking so fit. You're a fine advertisement for those pills of mine, and I'm sure you're glad now you kept away from old Swizzle-Stick Smith's nostrums. You seem to have been having a bit of a scrap round the factory here. However, we will hear about that, and have your tally of the cargo you want to ship from here and Malla-Nulla afterwards. But for the present I want to introduce my passenger and your boss, Miss O'Neill." Carter swallowed with a dry throat. "Mr. K. O'Neill's sister?" "Miss Kate O'Neill, who is head of O'Neill and Craven." Carter blinked tired eyes, and saw a girl of three-and-twenty, half a head shorter than Laura Slade, dressed as simply, but with that something that somehow speaks of Europe, and money, and taste. Her eye was brown and her hair was the color of his own--nearly. No, it was darker. She was holding out a hand to him--a neat, plump hand that looked white, and firm, and cool, and capable, and which somehow or other he found in his own. "Laura calls you George, I notice," he heard her saying. "Yes, of course she would. We are engaged, you know."