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yet present, that she at least could grow used to the idea of becoming one of the Establishment, then drove on again.
    To the west she saw another villa, probably Janet’s. There was a fourth to the north, as yet incomplete. Waiting for Vida?
    No wonder, no wonder they were the Establishment. An establishment, Chris Mitchell had said, means a fixed state, and this was a very fixed state, she decided.
    She found an empty paddock with a satisfactory supply of grass in it. Harriet was plainly delighted. She was just learning to graze.
    Gemma sat on the rail and baby-sat. The sun beat pleasantly down on her shoulder blades and the sky was a flawless blue. The horizon was limitless. As far as Gemma could look, east, west, south, north, there was space.
    It was quite beautiful, too. The Salvation Jane had intruded in some places . . . now why had she said intruded? Yet it must be an intrusion, because the Jane was a weed, and the Mannerings would frown on weeds. Anyway, its unbelievable blue almost shouted at her. Just as well, Gemma thought, there is a shout, or a colour burst, or—or something; the place is too perfect, too ordered, too detached.
    A sudden loneliness overtook her. Far to the north she could faintly see a boundary fence. On the other side of the fence would be Chris Mitchell’s Boothagullagulla. All at once she wanted quite desperately to drive out to that fence, climb over it, escape.
    Instead she collected Harriet and hugged her so hard the little mite mooed and gave Gemma a reproachful look.
    She drove back to the homestead in time for another of Hannah’s colossal meals. Hannah did not ask her if she had called on Miss Janet, so Gemma did not bring up the subject.
    She kept safely to food, and recipes, and how Hannah would have to teach her to cook, then grossly over-indulged by a glowing Hannah, she tottered out to the verandah to sleep the meal off.
    Around an hour later she opened her eyes, vaguely conscious of movement somewhere, of something breaking the station quiet.
    She sat up and looked out. Across the fields rode a posse of men. Even in the distance her first glance clearly established Bruce. He rode in front, very straight, very efficient, very disciplined. Even after a, long drive, for Hannah had said the men had been away for days, he looked impeccable and freshly turned out.
    How very handsome he was! Gemma sat gazing at him, admiring the perfect co-ordination of his gear, even though it was only working gear. Browns, fawns, a subtle touch of tan at the throat. How different, how very different, from oil-stained pants and a black sweatshirt. Now why had she thought that?
    He was coming nearer, so Gemma got up and waved. He looked over, then raised his whip to her.
    But it was some time before he joined her on the verandah. That was only to be expected, of course J he would have to give orders to the men.
    But what was not expected was Bruce’s casual kiss on Gemma’s brow. Gemma could not have said exactly what she had waited for, but she did know that it wasn't that. Nor Bruce’s :
    “I didn’t bank on you coming for some time yet, dear. You must tell me about it. But. after my bath first, of course.”
    “Of course, Bruce.” It was on the tip of Gemma’s tongue to add: “Though you certainly don't look as though you need a bath. You look as you always look, and that is—”
    How did Bruce always look? But Gemma asked this only of the verandah post, for Bruce now had gone inside.
    How —how had Bruce always looked to her?
     

CHAPTER SIX
    WHEN Bruce came out again he was all in cream, the only colour a blue and white polka dot cravat at his throat. He looked cool, relaxed and very much the gentleman of the land. Gemma told him so proudly, her moment of doubt gone, and Bruce frowned slightly and said:
    “Yes, but the gentleman is a little concerned. I suppose you know beef is not king any more? Our exports are down. Nothing drastic, of course, but we like to keep a watchful eye