“Your wonderful Australia!” said Harriet to Jack. “I can’t tell you how it moves me. It feels as if no one had ever loved it. Do you know what I mean? England and Germany and Italy and Egypt and India--they’ve all been loved so passionately. But Australia feels as if it had never been loved, and never come out into the open. As if man had never loved it, and made it a happy country, a bride country--or a mother country.” “I don’t suppose they ever have,” said Jack. “But they will?” asked Harriet. “Surely they will. I feel that if I were Australian, I should love the very earth of it--the very sand and dryness of it--more than anything.” “Where should we poor Australian wives be?” put in Victoria, leaning forward her delicate, frail face--that reminded one of a flickering butterfly in its wavering. “Yes,” said Harriet meditatively, as if they had to be considered, but were not as important as the other question. “I’m afraid most Australians come to hate the Australian earth a good bit before they’re done with it,” said Jack. “If you call the land a bride, she’s the sort of bride not many of us are willing to tackle. She drinks your sweat and your blood, and then as often as not lets you down, does you in.” “Of course,” said Harriet, “it will take time. And of course a _lot_ of love. A lot of fierce love, too.” “Let’s hope she gets it,” said Jack. “They treat the country more like a woman they pick up on the streets than a bride, to my thinking.” “I feel I could _love_ Australia,” declared Harriet. “Do you feel you could love an Australian?” asked Jack, very much to the point. “Well,” said Harriet, arching her eyes at him, “that’s another matter. From what I see of them I rather doubt it,” she laughed, teasing him. “I should say you would. But it’s no good loving Australia if you can’t love the Australian.” “Yes, it is. If as you say Australia is like the poor prostitute, and the Australian just bullies her to get what he can out of her and then treats her like dirt.” “It’s a good deal like that,” said Jack. “And then you expect me to approve of you.” “Oh, we’re not all alike, you know.” “It always seems to me,” said Somers, “that somebody will have to water Australia with their blood before it’s a real man’s country. The soil, the very plants seem to be waiting for it.” “You’ve got a lurid imagination, my dear man,” said Jack. “Yes, he has,” said Harriet. “He’s always so extreme.”