Somers was a true Englishman, with an Englishman’s hatred of anarchy, and an Englishman’s instinct for authority. So he felt himself at a discount in Australia. In Australia authority was a dead letter. There was no giving of orders here; or, if orders were given, they would not be received as such. A man in one position might make a suggestion to a man in another position, and this latter might or might not accept the suggestion, according to his disposition. Australia was not yet in a state of anarchy. England had as yet at least nominal authority. But let the authority be removed, and then! For it is notorious, when it comes to constitutions, how much there is in a name. Was all that stood between Australia and anarchy just a name?--the name of England, Britain, Empire, Viceroy, or Governor General, or Governor? The shadow of the old sceptre, the mere sounding of a name? Was it just the hollow word “Authority,” sounding across seven thousand miles of sea, that kept Australia from Anarchy? Australia--Authority--Anarchy: a multiplication of the alpha. So Richard Lovat cogitated as he roamed about uneasily. Not that he knew all about it. Nobody knows all about it. And those that fancy they know _almost_ all about it are usually most wrong. A man must have _some_ ideas about the thing he’s up against, otherwise he’s a simple wash-out. But Richard _was_ wrong. Given a good temper and a genuinely tolerant nature--both of which the Australians seem to have in a high degree--you can get on for quite a long time without “rule.” For quite a long time the thing just goes by itself. Is it merely running down, however, like a machine running on but gradually running down? Ah, questions! CHAP: II. NEIGHBOURS The Somers-Callcott acquaintance did not progress very rapidly, after the affair of the dahlias. Mrs Callcott asked Mrs Somers across to look at their cottage, and Mrs Somers went. Then Mrs Somers asked Mrs Callcott back again. But both times Mr Somers managed to be out of the way, and managed to cast an invisible frost over the _rencontre_. He was not going to be dragged in, no, he was not. He very much wanted to borrow a pair of pincers and a chopper for an hour, to pull out a few nails, and to split his little chunks of kindling that the dealer had sent too thick. And the Callcotts were very ready to lend anything, if they were only asked for it. But no, Richard Lovat wasn’t going to ask. Neither would he buy a chopper, because the travelling expenses had reduced him to very low water. He preferred to wrestle with the chunks of jarrah every morning.