The extremely familiar roast saddle of mutton that Cookie served in its own grease in the shearers’ quarters was here too, but basted with rosemary and lemon and served with crisp potatoes — which to do him credit, Cookie also achieved when there were spuds to be had. There was also miraculous asparagus from the Griggs garden, a dish of peas adorned with butter, and glazed carrots. Vegetables! He had three helpings, and only embarrassment stopped him asking for more.

Anchovy toast, then Queen of Puddings and custard, followed by brandy for the men that came from a bottle with a label, as did the port, and the cigars.

They joined Mrs Griggs and Alice in the parlour: striped wallpaper, well-stuffed sofas with tasselled cushions, papier-mâché vases and paper flowers exactly like the ones Maria used to make, and probably from the same magazine patterns, polished floors that smelled of beeswax and lavender, as did the sideboard and small table. Both looked colonial made, and the table’s four legs were not quite square.

But the room was . . . good. A home. What Overflow might have been, might yet be, if he married someone like Alice — one who was closer to his age, for her fluttering eyelashes were obviously just practice for the Sydney ‘season’ in two or three years’ time.

‘Tea?’ asked Mrs Griggs, lifting the silver pot. ‘And do try the lemon fingers. Alice made them.’

Later he sang while Alice played the piano, and by the end of the evening he had agreed to stay the week till Andrew left so he could join the men hunting brumbies: hard work, but a gentleman’s evening at the end of each day, and in a gentleman’s home, not the corrugated-iron shearers’ quarters.

‘Would you mind if I wrote to you?’ asked Andrew as they both prepared to leave a week later — one rolling his gear into a swag for the back of his horse, the other neatly packing a portmanteau. He grinned ruefully, ‘It’ll give me something to dream of when I’m locked in my office, you wandering about murmuring conversations with the river.’

‘Which means you want me to write back? Yes, I’ll write. Send the letters care of Overflow unless I can give you an idea of where I might be next. They’ll send them to wherever I might be headed next. I think I’ve had enough of shearing for a while.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Roger Griggs says a man called McKenzie is taking a mob of cattle up Queensland way. There’s still money for stock up there. I thought I’d ride over and see if they could use another pair of hands. Though they probably don’t.’