"And what is your other name, Mr. Engelhardt?"  
"Hermann."
 
"Hermann Engelhardt! That's a lovely name. How well it will look in the newspapers!"
 
The piano-tuner shook his head.
 
"It will never get into them now," said he, sadly.
 
"What nonsense!" exclaimed the girl. "When you have told me of all the big things you dream of doing one day! You'll do them every one when you go home to England again; I'll put my bottom dollar on you."
 
"Ah, but the point is whether I shall ever go back at all."
 
"Of course you will."
 
"I have a presentiment¹ that I never shall."
 
"Since when?" inquired Naomi, with a kindly² sarcasm³.
 
"Oh, I always have it, more or less."
 
"You had it very much less this morning, when you were telling me how you'd go home and study at Milan and I don't know where-all, once you'd made the money."
 
"But I don't suppose I ever shall make it."
 
"Bless the man!" cried Naomi, giving him up, for the moment in despair. She continued to gaze at him, however, as he leant back in his wicker chair, with hopeless dark eyes fixed⁴ absently upon the distant clumps⁵ of pale green trees that came between glaring plain and cloudless sky. They were sitting on the veranda⁶ which did not face the station-yard, because it was the shady one in the afternoon. The silver had all been properly put away, and locked up as carefully as before. As for the morning's visitors, Naomi was herself disposed to think no more of them or their impudence⁷; it is therefore sad to relate that her present companion would allow her to forget neither. With him the incident rankled⁸ characteristically; it had left him solely⁹ occupied by an extravagantly¹⁰ poor opinion of himself. For the time being, this discolored his entire existence and prospects¹¹, draining his self-confidence to the last drop. Accordingly, he harped¹² upon the late annoyance¹³, and his own inglorious share in it, to an extent which in another would have tried Naomi very sorely indeed; but in him she rather liked it. She had a book in her lap, but it did not interest her nearly so much as the human volume in the wicker chair at her side. She was exceedingly frank about the matter.
 
"You're the most interesting man I ever met in my life," was her very next remark.
 
"I can't think that!"
 
He had hauled in his eyes some miles to see whether she meant it.
 
"Nevertheless, it's the case. Do you know why you're so interesting?"
 
"No, that I don't!"
 
"Because you're never the same for two seconds together."
 
His face fell.
 
"Among other reasons," added Naomi, nodding kindly.
 
But Engelhardt had promptly¹⁴ put himself upon the spit. He was always doing this.
 
 
"Yes, I know I'm a terribly up-and-down kind of chap," said he, miserably¹⁵; "there's no happy medium about me."
 
"When you are good you are very good indeed, and when you are bad you are horrid¹⁶! That's just what I like. I can't stand your always-the-same people. They bore me beyond words; they drill me through and through! Still, you were very good indeed this morning, you know. It is too absurd of you to give a second thought to a couple of tramps and their insolence¹⁷!"
 
"I can't help it. I'm built that way. To think that I should have stood still to hear you insulted like that!"
 
"But you didn't stand still."
 
"Oh, yes, I did."
 
"Well, I wish you wouldn't bother about it. I wish you wouldn't bother about yourself."
 
"When I am bad I am horrid," he said, with a wry¹⁸ smile, "and that's now."
 
"No, I tell you I like it. I never know where I've got you. That's one reason why you're so interesting."
 
His face glowed, and he clasped her with his glance.
 
"How kind you are!" he said, softly. "How you make the best of one, even at one's worst! But oh, how bitterly you make me wish that I were different!"
 
"I'm very glad that you're not," said Naomi; "everybody else is different."
 
"But I would give my head to be like everybody else—to be hail-fellow with those men out at the shed, for instance. They wouldn't have stood still this morning."
 
"Wouldn't you as soon be hail-fellow with me?" asked the girl, ignoring his last sentence.
 
"A million times sooner, of course! But surely you understand?"
 
"I think I do."
 
"I know you do; you understand everything. I never knew anyone like you, never!"
 
"Then we're quits," said Naomi, as though the game were over. And she closed her eyes. But it was she who began it again; it always was.
 
"You have one great fault," she said, maternally¹⁹.
 
"I have a thousand and one."
 
"There you are. You think too much about them. You take too much notice of yourself; that's your great fault."
 
"Yet I didn't think I was conceited²⁰."
 
 
"Not half enough. That's just it. Yet you are egotistical."
 
He looked terribly crestfallen²¹. "I suppose I am," he said, dolefully. "In fact, I am."
 
"Then you're not, so there!"
 
"Which do you mean?"
 
"I only said it to tease you. Do you suppose I'd have said such a thing if I'd really thought it?"
 
"I shouldn't mind what you said. If you really do think me egotistical, pray say so frankly²²."
 
"Of course I don't think anything of the kind!"
 
"Is that the truth?"
 
"The real truth."
 
(It was not.)
 
"If it's egotistical to think absolutely nothing of yourself," continued Naomi, "and to blame yourself and not other people for every little thing that goes wrong, then I should call you a twenty-two-carat egotist. But even then your aims and ambitions would be rather lofty for the billet."
 
"They never seemed so to me," he whispered, "until you sympathized with them."
 
"Of course I sympathize," said Naomi, laughing at him. It was necessary to laugh at him now and then. It kept him on his feet; this time it led him from the abstract to the concrete.
 
"If only I could make enough money to go home and study, to study even in London for one year," murmured Engelhardt, as his eyes drifted out across the plains. "Then I should know whether my dreams ever were worth dreaming. But I have taken root out here, I am beginning to do well, better than ever I could have hoped. At our village in the old country I was glad enough to play the organ in church for twelve pounds a year. Down in Victoria they gave me fifty without a murmur²³, and I made a little more out of teaching. Oh! didn't I tell you I started life out here as an organist? That's how it was I was able to buy this business, and I am doing very well indeed. Two pounds for tuning²⁴ a piano! They wouldn't credit it in the old country."
 
"The man before you used to charge three. A piano-tuner in the bush is an immensely welcome visitor, mind. I don't think I should have lowered my terms at all, especially when you have no intention of doing this sort of thing all your days."
 
"Ah, well, I shall never dare to throw it up."
 
 
"Never's not a word I like to hear you use, Mr. Engelhardt. Remember that you've only been out here three years, and that you are not yet twenty-six. You told me so yourself this morning."
 
"It's perfectly²⁵ true," said Engelhardt. "But there's one's mother to consider. I told you about her. I am beginning to send her so much money now. It would be frightful²⁶ to give that up, just because there are tunes²⁷ in my head now and then, and I can't put them together in proper harmony."
 
"I should say that your mother would rather have you than your money, Mr. Engelhardt."
 
"Perhaps so, but not if I were on her hands composing things that nobody would publish."
 
"That couldn't be. You would succeed. Something tells me that you would. I see it in your face; I did this morning. I know nothing about music, yet I feel so certain about you. The very fact that you should have these ambitions when you are beginning to do well out here, that in itself is enough for me."
 
He shook his head, without turning it to thank her by so much as a look. The girl was glad of that. Though he had so little[Pg 79] confidence in himself, she knew that the dreams of which he had spoken more freely and more hopefully in the morning were thick upon him then, as he sat in the wicker chair and looked out over the plains, with parted lips and such wistful eyes that Naomi's mind went to work at the promptings of the heart in her which he touched. It was a nimble, practical mind, and the warm heart beneath it was the home of noble impulses, which broke forth²⁹ continually in kind words and generous acts. Naomi wore that heart upon her sweet frank face, it shone with a clear light out of the fearless eyes that were fixed now so long and so steadily³⁰ upon the piano-tuner's eager profile. She watched him while the shadow of the building grew broader and broader under his eyes, until all at once it lost its edges, and there were no more sunlit patches on the plain. Still he neither moved nor looked at her. At last she touched him on the arm. She was sitting on his right, and she laid her fingers lightly upon the splints and bandages which were her own handiwork.
 
"Well, Mr. Engelhardt?"
 
He started round, and she was smiling at him in the gloaming, with her sweet warm face closer to his than it had ever been before.
 
 
"I have been very rude," he stammered³¹.
 
"I am going to be much ruder."
 
"Now you are laughing at me."
 
"No, I am not. I was never farther from laughing in my life, for I fear that I shall offend you, though I do hope not."
 
He saw that something was upon her mind.
 
"You couldn't do it if you tried," he said, simply.
 
"Then I want to know how much money you think you ought to have to go home to England with a clear conscience, and to give yourself heart and soul to music for a year certain? I am so inquisitive³² about it all."
 
She was employing, indeed, and successfully, a tone of pure and indefensible curiosity. He thought for some moments before answering. Then he said, quite innocently:
 
"Five hundred pounds. That would leave me enough to come back and start all over again out here if I failed. I wouldn't tackle it on less."
 
"But you wouldn't fail. I know nothing about it, but I have my instincts, and I see success in your face. I see it there! And I want to bet on you. I have more money than is good for any girl, and I want to back you for five hundred pounds."
 
"It is very kind of you," he said, "but you would lose your money." He did not see her meaning. The southern night had set in all at once; he could not even see her strenuous³³ eyes.
 
"How dense³⁴ you are," she said, softly, and with a little nervous laugh. "Can't you see that I want to lend you the money?"
 
"To lend it to me!"
 
"Why not?"
 
"Five hundred pounds!"
 
"My dear young man, I'm ashamed to say that I should never feel it. It's a sporting offer merely. Of course I'd charge interest—you'd dedicate all your nice songs to me. Why don't you answer? I don't like to see you in the bush, it isn't at all the place for you; and I do want to send you home to your mother. You might let me, for her sake. Have you lost your tongue?"
 
Her hand had remained upon the splints and bandages; indeed, she had forgotten that there was a living arm inside them, but now something trivial occurred that made her withdraw it, and also get up from her chair.
 
"Are you on, or are you not?"
 
"Oh, how can I thank you? What can I say?"
 
 
"Yes or no," replied Naomi, promptly.
 
"No, then. I can't—I can't——"
 
"Then don't. Now not another word! No, there's no offence on either side, unless it's I that have offended you. It was great cheek of me, after all. Yes, it was! Well, then, if it wasn't, will you have the goodness to lend me your ears on an entirely³⁵ different matter?"
 
"Very well; with all my heart; yet if only I could ever thank you——"
 
"If only you would be quiet and listen to me! How are the bruises³⁶ behaving? That's all I want to hear now."
 
"The bruises? Oh, they're all right; I'd quite forgotten I had any."
 
"You can lean back without hurting?"
 
"Rather! If I put my weight on the left side it doesn't hurt a bit."
 
"Think you could stand seven miles in a buggy to-morrow morning?"
 
"Couldn't I!"
 
"Then I thought of driving over to the shed in the morning; and you shall come with me if you're good."
 
For an instant he looked radiant. Then his face clouded over as he thought again of her goodness and his own ingratitude³⁷.
 
"Miss Pryse," he began—and stuck—but his tone spoke²⁸ volumes of remorse³⁸ and self-abasement.
 
Evidently she was getting to know that tone, for she caught him up with a look of distinct displeasure.
 
"Only if you're good, mind!" she told him, sharply. "Not on any account unless!"
 
And Engelhardt said no more.