The Last Lemurian: A Westralian Romance

WE had finished our meal, and were lolling back on our blankets, smoking and 'swapping yarns,' before I had an opportunity to have a good square look at my companion.

He was a fine-built man, topping six feet, and with a frame loosely hung and wiry, after the fashion that comes to any one who has spent many years in the hot air of the Australian bush and engaged in the toil incidental to a life of pastoral pursuits. His full beard, like his hair, was tinged with grey, and I judged him to be well over forty-five years of age. His nose was straight and slender, but the most remarkable feature of the face was the eyes. They were of that peculiar blue which goes to a grey in a strong light, or when their owner yields himself to the seductions of a dolce far niente, and allows his mind to wander unchecked in half-dreamy reveries, but which becomes dark and flashing when he is aroused in temper or uses his mental powers vigorously.