Linton. The squatter unlocked it and sorted out the letters quickly.
"Nothing for you, Tommy; two for Norah; three for Bob, and bundles for
Wally and Jim. Papers beyond counting, and parcels you girls can deal
with." He gathered up a package of his own letters. "Chiefly stock
and station documents--though, I see, there's a letter from your aunt,
Norah; I expect she's anxious to know when I'm going to cease bringing
you up like a boy, and send you to Melbourne to be a perfect lady."
"Tell her, never," said Norah lazily. "I don't see any spare time
ahead--not enough to make me into a lady after Aunt Winifred's pattern.
Cecil is much more lady-like than I am."
"He always was," Jim said. "Years ago we used to wonder that he didn't
take to wool-work, and I expect he'll do it yet. Even serving in the war
didn't keep Cecil from manicuring his nails--he gets a polish on them
that beats anything I ever saw."
"Never mind--he's got a limp," said Norah, in whose eyes that legacy of
the war covered a multitude of sins.
"Well, he has. But he even limps in a lady-like way," grinned Jim. "And
he has no time for Wal and me. He told me that he was surprised that
five years of France and England hadn't made us less Australian."
"It's a matter of regret to us all," said Norah placidly. "We hoped for
great things when you came out--more attention to polite conversation,
and a passion for top-hats, and--" At which point further eloquence was
checked by a cushion placed gently, but firmly, by a brotherly hand on
her face, and so she subsided, with a gurgle of laughter, into the cool
depths of the buffalo grass where they were all lying.
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