Those two old woody gods, Warrenheip and
Buninyong, stood out more imposingly than by day; but the ranges seemed
to have retreated. The light lay upon them like a visible burden,
flattening their contours, filling up clefts and fissures with a milky
haze.
"Good evening, doctor!"
Spoken in his very ear, the words made him jump. He had been lost in
contemplation; and the address had a ghostly suddenness. But it was no
ghost that stood beside him--nor indeed was it a night for those
presences to be abroad whose element is the dark.
Ill-pleased at the intrusion, he returned but a stiff nod: then, since
he could not in decency greet and leave-take in a breath, feigned to go
on for a minute with his study of the landscape. After which he said:
"Well, I must be moving. Good night to you."
"So you're off your sleep, too, are you?" As often happens, the impulse
to speak was a joint one. The words collided.
Instinctively Mahony shrank into himself; this familiar bracketing of
his person with another's was distasteful to him. Besides, the man who
had sprung up at his elbow bore a reputation that was none of the best.
The owner of a small chemist's shop on the Flat, he contrived to give
offence in sundry ways: he was irreligious--an infidel, his neighbours
had it--and of a Sabbath would scour his premises or hoe potatoes
rather than attend church or chapel. Though not a confirmed drunkard, he
had been seen to stagger in the street, and be unable to answer when
spoken to.
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