Colour Scheme. Ngaio Marsh

past the windows, holding himself very straight, and, still extremely red in the face, disappeared.

      ‘Of all the damned astounding how-d’ye-do’s …’ Dr Ackrington began.

      ‘Oh, James, don’t,’ cried Mrs Claire, and burst into tears.

      IV

      Huia slapped the last plate in the rack, swilled out the sink and turned her back on a moderately tidy kitchen. She lived with her family at a native settlement on the other side of the hill and, as it was her afternoon off, proposed to return there in order to change into her best dress. She walked round the house, crossed the pumice sweep, and set off along a path that skirted the warm lake, rounded the foot of Wai-ata-tapu Hill, and crossed a native thermal reserve that lay in the far side. The sky was overcast and the air oppressively warm and still. Huia moved with a leisurely stride. She seemed to be a part of the landscape, compounded of the same dark medium, quiescent as the earth under the dominion of the sky. White men move across the surface of New Zealand, but the Maori people are of its essence, tranquil or disturbed as the trees and lakes must be, and as much a member of the earth as they.

      Huia’s path took her through a patch of tall manuka scrub and here she came upon a young man, Eru Saul, a half-caste. He stepped out of the bushes and waited for her, the stump of a cigarette hanging from his lips.

      ‘Hu!’ said Huia. ‘You. What you want?’

      ‘It’s your day off, isn’t it? Come for a walk.’

      ‘Too busy,’ said Huia briefly. She moved forward. He checked her, holding her by the arms.

      ‘No,’ he said.

      ‘Shut up.’

      ‘I want to talk to you.’

      ‘What about? Same old thing all the time. Talk, talk, talk. You make me tired.’

      ‘You know what. Give us a kiss.’

      Huia laughed and rolled her eyes. ‘You’re mad. Behave yourself. Mrs Claire will go crook if you hang about. I’m going home.’

      ‘Come on,’ he muttered, and flung his arms about her. She fought him off, laughing angrily, and he began to upbraid her. ‘I’m not posh enough. Going with a pakeha now, aren’t you? That’s right, isn’t it?’

      ‘Don’t you talk to me like that. You’re no good. You’re a no-good boy.’

      ‘I haven’t got a car and I’m not a thief. Questing’s a ruddy thief.’

      ‘That’s a big lie,’ said Huia blandly. ‘He’s all right.’

      ‘What’s he doing at night on the Peak? He’s got no business on the Peak.’

      ‘Talk, talk, talk. All the time.’

      ‘You tell him if he doesn’t look out he’ll be in for it. How’ll you like it if he gets packed up?’

      ‘I don’t care.’

      ‘Don’t you? Don’t you?’

      ‘Oh, you are silly,’ cried Huia, stamping her foot. ‘Silly fool! Now get out of my way and let me go home. I’ll tell my great-grandfather about you and he’ll makutu you.’

      ‘Kid-stakes! Nobody’s going to put a jinx on me.’

      ‘My great-grandfather can do it,’ said Huia and her eyes flashed.

      ‘Listen, Huia,’ said Eru. ‘You think you can get away with dynamite. OK. But don’t come at it with me. And another thing. Next time this joker Questing wants to have you on to go driving, you can tell him from me to lay off. See? Tell him from me, no kidding, that if he tries any more funny stuff, it’ll be the stone end of his trips up the Peak.’

      ‘Tell him yourself,’ said Huia. She added, in dog Maori, an extremely pointed insult, and taking him off his guard slipped past him and ran round the hill.

      Eru stood looking at the ground. His cigarette burnt his lip and he spat it out. After a moment he turned and slowly followed her.

       CHAPTER TWO

       Mr Questing Goes Down for the First Time

      ‘We’ve heard from Dr Forster, sir,’ said Dikon Bell. He glanced anxiously at his employer. When Gaunt stood with his hands rammed down in the pockets of his dressing-gown and his shoulders hunched to his ears one watched one’s step. Gaunt turned away from the window, and Dikon noticed apprehensively that his leg was very stiff this morning.

      ‘Ha!’ said Gaunt.

      ‘He makes a suggestion.’

      ‘I won’t go to that sulphurous resort.’

      ‘Rotorua, sir?’

      ‘Is that what it’s called?’

      ‘He realises you want somewhere quiet, sir. He’s made inquiries about another place. It’s in the Northland. On the west coast. Subtropical climate.’

      ‘Sulphurous pneumonia?’

      ‘Well, sir, we do want to clear up that leg, don’t we?’

      ‘We do.’ With one of those swift changes of demeanour by which he so easily commanded devotion, Gaunt turned to his secretary and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I think you’re as homesick as I am, Dikon. Isn’t that true? You’re a New Zealander, of course, but wouldn’t you ten thousand times rather be there? In London? Isn’t it exactly as if someone you loved was ill and you couldn’t get to them?’

      ‘A little like that, certainly,’ said Dikon drily.

      ‘I shouldn’t keep you here. Go back, my dear chap. I’ll find somebody in New Zealand,’ said Gaunt with a certain melancholy relish.

      ‘Are you giving me the sack, sir?’

      ‘If only they can patch me up …’

      ‘But they will, sir. Dr Forster said the leg ought to respond very quickly to hydrotherapy,’ said Dikon with a prime imitation of the doctor’s manner. ‘They simply hated the sight of me in the Australian recruiting offices. And I fancy I should have little more than refuse value at home. I’m as blind as a bat, you know. Of course, there’s office work.’

      ‘You must do what you think best,’ said Gaunt gloomily. ‘Leave me to stagnate. I’m no good to my country. Ha!’

      ‘If you can call raising twelve thousand for colonial patriotic funds no good …’

      ‘I’m a useless hulk,’ said Gaunt, and even Dikon was reminded of the penultimate scene in Jane Eyre.

      ‘What are you grinning at, blast you?’ Gaunt demanded.

      ‘You don’t look precisely like a useless hulk. I’ll stay a little longer if you’ll have me.’

      ‘Well, let’s hear about this new place. You’re looking wonderfully self-conscious. What hideous surprise have you got up your sleeve?’

      Dikon put his attaché case on the writing-table and opened it.

      ‘There’s a princely fan mail today,’ he said, and laid a stack of typed sheets and photographs on one side.

      ‘Good! I adore being adored. How many have written a little something themselves and wonder if I can advise them how to have their plays produced?’

      ‘Four. One lady has sent a copy of her piece. She has dedicated it to you. It’s a fantasy.’

      ‘God!’

      ‘Here is Dr Forster’s