“I suppose you must,” he said, going away to inspect the two little bedrooms, and the kitchen, and the outside. There was a scrap of garden at the back, with a path down the middle, and a fine Australian tree at the end, a tree with pale bark and no leaves, but big tufts of red, spikey flowers. He looked at the flowers in wonder. They were apparently some sort of bean flower, in sharp tufts, like great red spikes of stiff wisteria, curving upwards, not dangling. They looked handsome against the blue sky: but again, extraneous. More like scarlet cockatoos perched in the bare tree, than natural growing flowers. Queer burning red, and hard red flowers! They call it coral tree. There was a little round summer-house also, with a flat roof and steps going up. Somers mounted, and found that from the lead-covered roof of the little round place he could look down the middle harbour, and even see the low gateway, the low headlands with the lighthouse, opening to the full Pacific. There was the way out to the open Pacific, the white surf breaking. A tramp steamer was just coming in, under her shaft of black smoke. But near at hand nothing but bungalows--street after street. This was one of the old-fashioned bits of Sydney. A little further off the streets of proper brick houses clustered. But here on this hill the original streets of bungalow places remained almost untouched, still hinting at the temporary shacks run up in the wilderness. Somers felt a little uneasy because he could look down into the whole range of his neighbours’ gardens and back premises. He tried not to look at them. But Harriet had come climbing after him to survey the world, and she began: “Isn’t it lovely up here! Do you see the harbour?--and the way we came in! Look, look, I remember looking out of the porthole and seeing that lighthouse, just as we came in--and those little brown cliffs. Oh, but it’s a wonderful harbour. What it must have been when it was first discovered. And now all these little dog-kennely houses, and everything. But this next garden is lovely; have you seen the--what are they, the lovely flowers?” “Dahlias.” “But did ever you see such dahlias! Are you sure they’re dahlias? They’re like pink chrysanthemums--and like roses--oh, lovely! But all these little dog-kennels--awful piggling suburban place--and sort of lousy. Is this all men can do with a new country? Look at those tin cans!” “What do you expect them to do. Rome was not built in a day.” “Oh, but they might make it nice. Look at all the little backs: like chicken houses with chicken-runs. They call this making a new country, do they?” “Well, how would you start making a new country yourself?” asked Somers, a little impatiently. “I wouldn’t have towns--and corrugated iron--and millions of little fences--and empty tins.” “No, you’d have old chateaus and Tudor manors.”