CHAPTER 4.
A naughty little gust--herald of the sub-tropical afternoon breeze that comes up the Leichardt River from the sea, blew about the typed sheets on the table, and, among them, those of Lady Bridget's letter, as Mrs Gildea laid them down.
While she collected the various pages of manuscript that had been displaced and was bundling them together, with a banana on each sheaf to keep it safe, there came a second snap of the gate and a man's voice hailed her.
It was the voice of a man who sang baritone, and his accent was an odd combination of the Bush drawl grafted on to the mellifluous Gaelic, from which race he had originated.
'Any admittance, Mrs Gildea, except on business, during working hours ?' 'Yes, it is working hours Colin, but you happen to be business because you're just the person I'm wanting to speak to, so come along.' 'Good for me, Joan,' and the man came along, clearing the rest of the garden path and the veranda steps in three strides.
He gripped Mrs Gildea's hand.
'You're nice and cool up here, and you get every bit of wind that's going along the river,' he said.

'It's a good thing you kept this humpey, Joan--a little nest for the bird to fly home to, eh ?' 'Yes, I'm glad, though it seemed a silly piece of sentiment ...

and, as you say, I always FELT the old bird might want to fly home for a bit some day.

Well, YOU look cool enough, Colin.' 'This is temperate zone for me after the Leura....

But it's a hot March because we haven't had a proper rainy season, and I'll just stand here and catch the breeze for a minute or two before I sit down.' He balanced himself on the veranda railing: took off his broad-brimmed Panama hat and mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief.