The French windows stood open to the veranda, a room in itself with its many squatters' chairs, hammocks and tables.

Beyond, stretched the green expanse of plain, utterly lonely, the waters of the lagoon taking a reddish tinge where they reflected the lowering sun.

It seemed an inconceivable environment to have been chosen by the Lady Bridget he had known in London, one of whose chief attractions to him had been that she represented a certain section of the aristocracy of Great Britain, decadent perhaps, but 'in the swim.' She cam now along the veranda from the Old Humpey with the light, rather hurried tread he remembered, talking rapidly when she joined him.
'I've been seeing about your room.

I suppose you know enough now of the Never-Never to understand that we are quite primitive in our habits.
You won't find a spring mattress--or water laid on--or any other convenience of civilisation.' 'May I remind you that I've roughed it pretty well in the Andes.' 'Yes, but you have had so many luxuries since then that you will have forgotten what roughing it feels like--just as I've forgotten now that I was ever anything but a barbarian--I see you shave still.' 'Yes--why ?' 'Only that I discovered just now the white ants had eaten all the woodwork of the spare-room looking-glass.

The thing crumbled in my hand and fell on the floor and was broken.