parts is the prerogative of lovers; you will find it oftener in the family.
What penitence Gladys had expressed had been lame—crippled by an excuse. Moreover, her tone had lacked complete contrition. Indeed, if not actually defiant, her manner was at least repellent. She had been spoken to hotly; some of the heat was reflected; it was a hot moment.
As for her excuse, it, of course, was ridiculous—qua excuse.
She had seen her oldest—indeed, her only—girl friend, Ada Barrington. Ada (Gladys pronounced it 'Ida') was another squatter's daughter; their fathers had been neighbours, more or less, for many years; but Ada's father owned more stations than one, was a wealthy man—in fact, a 'woollen king.' Gladys had known they were in Europe, but that was all. And she had seen Ada cantering past, but Ada had not seen her. So she had 'coo-ee'd.' What else was there to be done? Gladys did not exactly ask this question, but she implied it plainly. As it happened, if she had not 'coo-ee'd,' she never would have seen Ada again, to a certainty; for the Barringtons had taken a place in Suffolk, and were going down there the very
