yet with a soft and cat-like motion through the heavens. It was spring. But still the bush kept its sombreness along all the pellucid ether: the eternally unlighted bush.
What was the good of caring? What was the point of caring? As he looked at the silent, morning bush grey-still in the translucency of the day, a voice spoke quite aloud in him. What was the good of caring, of straining, of stressing? Not the slightest good. The vast lapse of time here—and white men thrown in like snow into dusky wine, to melt away and disappear, but to cool the fever of the dry continent. Afterwards—afterwards—in the far-off, far-off afterwards, a different sort of men might arise to a different sort of care. But as for now—like snow in aboriginal wine one could float and deliciously melt down, to nothingness, having no choice.
He knew that Kangaroo was worse. But he was startled to find him looking a dead man. A long, cadaverous yellow-face, exactly the face of a dead man, but with an animal's dark eyes. He did not move. But he watched Richard come forward from the door. He did not give him his hand.
"How are you?" said Richard gently.
"Dying." The one word from the discoloured lips.
Somers was silent, because he knew it was only too true. Kangaroo's dark eyebrows above his motionless dark eyes were exactly like an animal that sulks itself to death. His brow was just sulking to death, like an animal.
Kangaroo glanced up at Somers with a rapid turn of the eyes. His body was perfectly motionless.
"Did you know I was dying?" he asked.
"I was afraid."
"Afraid! You weren't afraid. You were glad. They're all glad." The voice was weak, hissing in its sound. He seemed to speak to himself.
"Nay, don't say that."
Kangaroo took no notice of the expostulation. He lay silent.
"They don't want me," he said.
"But why bother?"
"I'm dying! I'm dying! I'm dying!" suddenly shouted Kangaroo, with a breaking and bellowing voice that nearly startled Richard out of his skin. The nurse came running in, followed by Jack.
