‘In order to see it, of course. Every Australian with sufficient brains to comprehend that there are more streets in the world than George Street would like to do that.’ ‘And was Mr. Frankston born in Australia? I thought he told me that he had been ten years here.’ ‘So he has been, and fifty more. He did not say _only_ ten years. He likes to joke about being taken for an Englishman, and says it is because he has a red face and a white waistcoat.’ ‘Well, I do not see the resemblance on those grounds,’ made answer Mr. Neuchamp guardedly. ‘But really, your papa is so exactly like an old gentleman of my acquaintance, who is a very Briton of Britons, that I took it for granted that he must be English.’ ‘So he is English, and so am I English; only we were not born in that small great country. But you _must_ think that there ought to be some distinguishing manner, or accent, about Australians, or you would not exhibit surprise at the resemblance.’ ‘If I ever had such an absurd idea, I am now entirely disabused of it,’ said Mr. Neuchamp gallantly; ‘and I must hope that in a short time to come I may be taken for an Australian, of which at present there is not apparently the least prospect.’ ‘Indeed, there is not,’ replied Miss Frankston; ‘pray excuse my smiling at the idea.’ ‘But why should I be so advertised, apparently by my whole personal effect upon society, that the waiters at the hotel are as aware of the fact, the cabmen, the persons whom I pass in the street, as if I had “passenger’s luggage” marked on my shirt-front? It is not entirely my complexion, for I see blonde people in every direction; nor my clothes, nor my speech, I hope.’ ‘I do not know, indeed. I cannot say. There must be some difference, or people would not notice it. But you must not imagine that because you are known to have just come from home that anything short of a compliment is intended. Indeed,’ said the girl with some diffidence, ‘it’s quite the other way.’ ‘I am delighted to hear you say so,’ returned Mr. Neuchamp, ‘and it will comfort Wilhelm Meister during his “Wanderjähre.”’ ‘Kennst du das Land?’ sang she. ‘Are you fond of music, Mr. Neuchamp? for I think I shall go in and give papa his nightly allowance of harmony. He refuses always to go to bed until I have sung to him. You had better keep him company.’ Mr. Neuchamp did so, the air of the balcony and the sight of the wondrous Southern Cross being as yet more attractive than the lady of the castle and her song. ‘That’s right,’ said the old gentleman, lighting another cigar and composing himself to listen. ‘Pity you don’t smoke; it’s an added pleasure, and one hasn’t too many in this world. It’s a luxury that lasts—one of the few things you can do as well when you’re old as when you are young.’ ‘I must differ from you,’ returned Mr. Neuchamp. ‘I think it often leads to the wasting of valuable time, but I bow to your greater experience.’