“And me?” asked Connie.

“You can all come in,” laughed George.  “Geisner shall do the political and get his editor ten years for sedition.  Stratton will supply the mild fatherly sociological leaders.  Mrs. Stratton shall prove that there can’t be any true Art so long as we don’t put the police on to everything that is ugly and repulsive.  Nellie, here, shall blossom out as the Joan of Arc of women’s rights, with a pen for a sword.  And Arty we’ll keep chained upon the premises and feed him with peppercorns when we want something particularly hot.  Ford can retire to painting and pour his whole supply of bile out in one cartoon a week that we’ll publish as a Saturday’s supplement.  Hawkins shall be our own correspondent who’ll give the gentle squatter completely away in weekly instalments.  And Josie and I’ll slash the stuffing out of your ‘copy’ if you go writing three columns when there’s only room for one.  We’ll boil down on our papers.  Every line will be essence of extract.  Don’t you see how it’s done already?”

“We see it,” said Nellie, stifling a yawn.  “The next thing is to get the unions to see it.”

“That’s so,” retorted George, “so I’ll give you my idea to do what you can with.”

“We must go,” said Nellie, getting up from her chair.  “It must be after one and I’m tired.”

“It’s ten minutes to two,” said Ford, having pulled out his watch.

“Why don’t you stay all night, Nellie,” asked Connie.  “We can put Ned up, if he doesn’t mind a shake-down.  Then we can make a night of it.  Geisner is off again on Monday or Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” said Geisner, who had gone to the book-shelf again.

“Then I’ll come Monday evening,” said Nellie, for his tone was an invitation.  “I feel like a walk, and I don’t feel like talking much.”

“All right,” said Connie, not pressing, with true tact.  “Will you come on Monday too, Ned?” she asked, moving to the door under the hangings with Nellie.  Josie slipped quickly out on to the verandah with George.

“I must be off on Monday,” replied Ned, regretfully.  “There’s a shed starts the next week, and I said I’d be up there to see that it shore union.  I’m very sorry, but I really can’t wait.”

“I’m so sorry, too.  But it can’t be helped.  Some other time, Ned.”  And nodding to him Connie went out with Nellie.

“So we shan’t see you again,” said Stratton, lighting a cigar at the gas.  Ford had resumed his puffing at his black pipe and his seat on the table.

“Not soon at any rate,” answered Ned.  “I shall be in Western Queensland this time next week.”

“The men are organising fast up that way, aren’t they?” asked Stratton.

“They had to,” said Ned.  “What with the Chinese and the squatters doing as they liked and hating the sight of a white man, we’d all have been cleared out if we hadn’t organised.”

“Coloured labour has been the curse of Queensland all through,” remarked Ford.