But he would convey to her in half words, looks, and tones that he had reason to believe Colin unworthy of her--that her husband had led the life of an ordinary bushman, and had fully availed himself of such material pleasures as might have come to his hand.

The veiled questions he asked about Mrs Hensor and her boy, brought back a startled remembrance of the scene outside the Fig Tree Mount Hotel and Steadbolt's vague accusation.

She had almost forgotten it--had never seriously thought about it.

Yet now she knew the midge-bite had festered.
Could it be that there was a chapter in Colin's life of which she knew nothing?
Was it not too much to believe that he had always been faithful to his ideal of the camp fire?
Ah! Maule would have jeered at that--would have been totally incapable of understanding the romance of that dream-drive--a dream in truth.

But how beautiful, how sane, how uplifting it seemed, compared with the feverish haschisch dream in which she was now living.