Aileen wasn’t one of those sort of girls that took a fancy to any good-looking sort of fellow that came across her. Quite the other way. She seemed to think so little about it that Jim and I always used to say she’d be an old maid, and never marry at all. And she used to say she didn’t think she ever would. She never seemed to trouble her head about the thing at all, but I always knew that if ever she did set her fancy upon a man, and take a liking to him, it would not be for a year or two, but for ever. Though she’d mother’s good heart and softness about her, she’d a dash of dad’s obstinacy in her blood, and once she made up her mind about anything she wasn’t easy turned.

Jim and I could see clear enough that she was taking to Starlight; but then so many women had done that, had fallen in love with him and had to fall out again—as far as we could see. He used to treat them all alike—very kind and respectful, but like a lot of children. What was the use of a wife to him? “No,” he said, once or twice, “I can bear my fate, because my blood does not run in the veins of a living soul in Australia. If it were otherwise I could not bear my reflections. As it is, the revolver has more than once nearly been asked to do me last service.”

Though both Aileen and he seemed to like each other, Jim and I never thought there was anything in it, and let them talk and ride and walk together just as they pleased. Aileen always had a good word for Starlight, and seemed to pity him for having to lead such a life, and because he said he had no hope of ever getting free from it. Then, of course, there was a mystery about him. Nobody knew who he’d been, or almost where he had come from—next to nothing about him had ever come out. He was an Englishman—that was certain—but he must have come young to the colony. No one could look at him for a moment and see his pale, proud face, his dark eyes—half-scornful, half-gloomy, except when he was set up a bit (and then you didn’t like to look at them at all)—without seeing that he was a gentleman to the tips of his delicate-looking fingers, no matter what he’d done, or where he’d been.

He was rather over the middle size; because lie was slight made, he always looked rather tall than not. He was tremendous strong, too, though he didn’t look that, and as active as a cat, though he moved as if walking was too much trouble altogether, and running not to be thought of.