'I've always meant to try for the best. You taught me that, Joan, I
shall follow your example. You were an Australian girl.'

Mrs Gildea's face saddened. 'Well,' was all she said.

'You see,' he went on, and the eyes took their narrow concentrated look
and suddenly blazed out as he straightened himself against the veranda
post, 'I know something of what marriage in the back block means: and
I've studied women--don't laugh--I mean theoretically--from books.
I've read history--always managed a couple of volumes or so in my
swag--nights and nights, by the light of a fat lamp and a camp fire. I've
studied the women of great times--ancient and modern--they're always
the same--and I've remarked the type of woman that's got grit--
capacity for fine things--You understand all that as well as I do,
Joan. Look at the women of the French Revolution for one instance--the
aristocrats, you know--well, I've realised that it takes blood and
breeding and tradition behind to carry a woman to the block with a sure
step and a proud smile . . .' Suddenly, he became aware of Joan's gaze,
half surprised, wholly interested. . . . He reddened and pulled himself
up gruffly.

'Sentimental rot, d'ye call it?'

'No, Colin, I believe in all that and so do you.'

'Blood and breeding and tradition--all the grand stuff that's been
grown in them on the NOBLESSE OBLIGE principle--self-respect, courage,
dignity--the stuff that gives staying power as well as the fire for
making good spunk. . . . Not that I'd put a pure-blood racer to haul up
logs for an iron-bark fence: any more than I'd set out to plant an