There flashed on Lady Bridget an absurd idea of having been married by proxy--like the little princesses of history--and of being now received into her lord's country by the monarch in person.

Her face was rippling all over with laughter when he joined her in the veranda.
'What! Another delicious black boy! He looks like a Christy Minstrel.

I thought you hated blacks, Colin.' 'So I do.

You've got to have 'em though for stock boys, and I keep my heel on the lot at Moongarr.

Wombo and Cudgee aren't bad chaps so long as they are kept clear of their tribe.