I unplaited my hair (shook the dust out of it) and wore it flowing.  We washed and dusted ourselves, and wore as adornment—­roses.  Crimson and cream roses paid the penalty of peeping in the window.  Aunt Helen plucked some of them, which she put in my hair and belt, and pinned carefully at my throat, and then we were ready.  Miss Beecham assured us there was nothing to be done, as the maids had set the table and prepared the viands for a cold meal before leaving in the morning, so we proceeded to the drawing-room to await the arrival of the other visitors.  They soon made their appearance.  First, two stout old squatters with big laughs and bigger corporations, then Miss Augusta Beecham, next Joe Archer the overseer, and the two other jackeroos.  After these appeared a couple of governesses, Mr, Mrs, and Miss Benson, a clergyman, an auctioneer, a young friend of Harold’s from Cootamundra, a horse-buyer, a wooll-classer, Miss Sarah Beecham, and then Miss Derrick brought herself and her dress in with great style and airs.  She was garbed in a sea-green silk, and had jewellery on her neck, arms, and hair.  Her self-confident mien was suggestive of the conquest of many masculine hearts.  She was a big handsome woman.  Beside her, I in my crushed white muslin dress was as overshadowed as a little white handkerchief would he in comparison to a gorgeous shawl heavily wrought in silks and velvet.  She was given the best scat as though she were a princess.  She sat down with great indifference, twirled a bracelet round her wrist, languidly opened her fan, and closed her eyes as she wafted it slowly to and fro.

“By Jove, isn’t she a splendid creature?” enthusiastically whispered a gentleman sitting beside me.

I looked at her critically.  She was very big, and in a bony stiff way was much developed in figure.  She had a nice big nose, and a long well-shaped face, a thin straight mouth, and empty light eyes.  If my attention had not been called to her I would not have noticed her one way or the other, but being pointed to as a beauty, I weighed her according to my idea of facial charm, and pronounced her one of the most insipid-looking people I had set eyes upon.

She was the kind of woman with whom men become much infatuated.  She would never make a fool of herself by letting her emotions run away with her, because she had no emotions, but lived in a sea of unruffled self-consciousness and self-confidence.  Any man would be proud to introduce her as his wife to his friends whom he had brought home to dinner.  She would adorn the head of his table.  She would never worry him with silly ideas.  She would never act with impropriety.  She would never become a companion to her husband.  Bah, a man does not want his wife to be a companion!  There were myths and fables in the old day; so there are now.  The story that men like a companion as well as a wife is an up-to-date one.

This train of thought was interrupted by our host, who appeared in the doorway, clad from sole to neck in white.  We steered for the dining-room—­twenty-two all told—­thirteen men and nine representatives of the other sex.