much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted.

"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there.
That'll do fine."

Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they were
so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of yellow
fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island,
proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of
silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee?

They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making for
the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig
of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed up the
smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in her
wonder at him caring for things like that--caring for the smell of
lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh,
how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have
workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys she danced with and who
came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much better with men like
these.

It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the
back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang, of
these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn't feel them.
Not a bit, not an atom...And now there came the chock-chock of wooden
hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, "Are you right there,
matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it, the--the--Just to prove how
happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt, and how
she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread-and-