and never the glimpse of a woman--not counting black gins--to remind
him he once had a mother and might have a wife. Well, can't you see
that his only chance of not growing into a rotten HATTER* is to start
picturing in his imagination all the beautiful things he's ever seen or
read about--the sort of lady-wife he hopes to have some day and in
making such a companion of her that she seems to him as real as the
stars and far more real than the gum trees. So as he'll keep saying to
her always in his thoughts: "I'll keep myself sound and wholesome for
your sake. I'll never forget that I'm a gentleman, so as YOU won't
shrink away from me in horror if ever I've the luck to come across YOU
down here on this Earth."'
[*Gidgee--Colloquial pronunciation of gidia, an Australain tree.]
[*Hatter--A white man who prefers the society of blacks.]

He stopped, fitted another cigarette from the copper case into the
holder and, before beginning upon it, said without looking at Mrs
Gildea:

'I wouldn't spout like that to anybody but you, Joan. My word! Though I
see by your writing that you've a fair notion of how this cursed, grim,
glorious old Bush can play the deuce with a chap--body and brain and
soul--if he doesn't wear the right kind of talisman to safeguard
himself.'

'Yes--I understand. And your talisman, Colin? What was your picture of
the lady-wife? Describe your Ideal and I'll tell you if SHE is the
least bit like it.'

McKeith smoked ruminatively for a few moments, his eyes narrowed. The
lines in his forehead and round his mouth showed plainly. He was gazing