out into space, far beyond the sun-flecked Leichardt River and the
Botanical Gardens, and the glaring city and the range of distant hills
on the horizon.

'Well,' he said at last, slowly, 'you can laugh at me if you like, but
I'll tell you how I see HER. She is tall--got a presence, so that if
SHE'S there, you'd know it and everybody else would know it, no matter
how many other women there might be in the place. Most big men take to
their opposites. Now, though I'm a big man I've never fancied a snippet
of a girl. Five foot seven of height is my measure of a woman, and a
good ten stone in the saddle--What are you laughing at, Joan? I'm out
there, I suppose?'

Mrs Gildea controlled her muscles.

'No, no, not in the least. In fact, your description fits the Ideal
Wife perfectly. Go on, Colin. Five foot seven and a good ten stone. How
is the rest of HER? Fair or dark--her hair now--and her eyes?'

'Her hair--oh, it isn't fair--not yellow or noticeable in colour--
like those dyed beauties you see about. Her hair is dark, soft and
cloudy looking. And she's got a small head set like--like a lily on
its stem--and her hair is parted in the middle and coiled smoothly
each side and into a sort of Greek knot. . . . '

'In short, she's a cross between the Venus of Milo and the Madonna.'

Mrs Gildea was smiling amusedly.

'Perhaps. . . . Something of that sort. Dignity and sweetness, you