At last they were out in the warm air. The night was clear and the stars shone brightly. The houses of Rua’s hapu were dimly visible against the blackness of the hills. A tall fence of manuka poles showed dramatically against the night sky, resembling in the half-light the palisade that had stood there in the days when the village was a fort. Most of the visitors had already gone. From out of the dark came the sound of many quiet voices and of one, a man’s, that seemed to be raised in anger. ‘But it is a Maori voice,’ Dikon said. In a distant hut one or two women broke quietly into the refrain of the little song. So still was the air that in the intervals between these sounds Taupo-tapu and the lesser mud pots could be heard, placidly working in the dark, out on the native reserve: plop, plop-plop, a monstrously domestic noise.

Dikon was oppressed by the sensation of something primordial in which he himself had no part. Three small boys, their brown faces and limbs scarcely discernible in the shadow of the meeting house, suddenly darted out in front of Barbara and Dikon. Striking the ground with their bare feet and slapping their thighs they sketched the movements of the war dance. They thrust out their tongues and rolled their eyes. ‘Eee-e! Eee-e,’ they said, making their voices deep. A woman spoke out of the dark, scolding them for their boldness and calling them home. They giggled skittishly and ran away. ‘They are too cheeky,’ the invisible woman’s voice said profoundly.

The Colonel and Mr Falls had disappeared. Mrs Claire was still by the meeting house, engaged in a long conversation with Mrs Te Papa.

‘Let’s bring the car round, shall we?’ said Dikon to Barbara. He was determined to get a word with her alone. She walked ahead of him quickly and he followed, stumbling in the dark.

‘Jump into the front seat,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’ But when they were in the car he was silent for a time, wondering how to begin, and astonished to find himself so greatly disturbed by her nearness.

‘Now listen to me,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve got hold of the idea that Questing sent you those damned clothes, haven’t you?’

‘But of course he did. You heard what he said. You saw how he looked.’ And with an air of simplicity that he found very touching she added: ‘And I did look nice, didn’t I?’

‘You little ninny!’ Dikon scolded. ‘You did and you do and you shall continue to look nice.’

‘You knew that wasn’t true before you said it. Shall I have to give it back myself, do you imagine? Or do you think my father might do it for me? I suppose I ought to hate my lovely dress but I can’t quite do that.’