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She knew it would only be a matter of time before Deborah spoke to her again, and her heart sank. What could she answer to the girl at the next interrogation? What was she to do?

Janet came in with hot milk before Gemma put out her light that night. . . no, it was the next morning. She sat on Gemma’s bed with, a mug herself, and grinned at Gemma.

“It went well."

“Very well,” Gemma agreed.

“I wasn’t there when Diablo appeared,” Janet went on.

“Diablo?” Gemma queried.

“Oh, Gemma—Tim, of course. But I saw him prior to his appearance outside What a man! You know” ... a little tentatively ... “he did something to me tonight as well as to Mamma. He made me sec myself as I am, not as I
thought
I wanted to be.”

“What do you mean, Janet?”

“He called: ‘Hullo, Janet, still looking for gold windows when you have them at home ?’ and suddenly —well, I understood. I said: ‘No, Tim,' and he smiled, and I smiled. He’s wonderful, but” ... a shake of Janet’s head . .
. “not my kind of wonderful, Gemma. Gemma, you wretch, you’re asleep! ”

Gemma wasn’t, but she kept up the pretence. She had enough on her own plate just now without any offerings from Janet.

The day after the engagement party was almost as hectic as the day itself had been. There were guests to see off, to thank again for the gifts that Gemma had still not examined . . , and dreaded examining. There were gay responses to be made to their: “See you soon, Gemma, so build up your strength, next time it’s for keeps.”

There were things left behind that had to be hurried out to a departing plane. Kisses. Handshakes. Smiles. More thanks.

The caterers flew out. The orchestra flew out. Jim put a small army of stockmen to clean up the strip, the lawns and the pool. Gemma saw a load of dead roses being carted to the incinerator, and it did something odd to her. At the moment she could not understand the feeling. Afterwards she knew that those dead roses were the end, too, of something else.

Everyone relaxed the following day, tired, a little edgy, somehow let down as you often are let down after something is over. Then life went on again.

Not quite the same, though. A few of the more intimate guests had stayed on. Mrs. Mannering had suggested to Vida that she ask Deborah to stop.

“Poor Vida,” Roberta Mannering said to Gemma, “he certainly crushed her, so she’ll need company.”

“Mr. Torrance?”

“Yes. But no more of him, please, Gemma. I never want to hear his name again.”

Gemma was pleased to find that Mrs. Mannering also was not yet in the mood to discuss the next big function, that of the wedding, for she knew she was unready for it herself.

“I think,” said Bruce’s mother sweetly, “we’ll all catch our breath first, take a well-earned rest.”

The relief to Gemma was so great, it never occurred to her to wonder why Bruce made no protest. Down in Sydney he had been anything but a laggard lover. Now he was as apathetic ... no, resigned was a nicer word ... as she was.

Bruce was busy directing the northern section of the stock rounding-up these 'days; after the beasts were brought in to Mannering Park, Bagsworth... or Maloney ... would take over and road train them south.

Deborah, when she was told of this aspect of outback life, insisted upon going,, too, to watch. She pleaded with Bruce to take the three girls, Vida, Gemma, herself.

Janet, who had been present when Deborah made her plans, said afterwards to Gemma:

“Watch yourself. There’s a catch.”

Of course there was a catch. Gemma was acutely aware of that. She knew that Deborah was only waiting for an opportunity to have a talk with her. It seemed incredible that the girl had not found an opportunity before, not in a remote rattle station like this, but Gemma had kept strictly to Janet’s house, and the only time she had gone to the Mannerings’, she had gone with others, and had never been alone with Vida’s guest. However, out there in the northern section there should be plenty of chances, chances for Deborah to say—

“Yes,” went on Janet darkly, “that girl is going to make a fool of you.”

“What do you mean, Janet?”

“Look, Gemma, Jim might have gone to work on you, but you still can’t ride for nuts. Not really. I’ve seen her ladyship ride. She’s superb.”

“Oh,” Gemma said, relieved at Janet’s reason for watchfulness.

“It’s not that I mind one way or other,” Janet continued with a shrug that meant it was obvious she did not mean, “but I hate seeing lambs taken to slaughter.”

“Am I a lamb?”

“You're newly born compared to Deborah Stockley.

Oh, I know you’re twenty-six to her twenty and a bit, but my, how that bit counts! I like you, Gemma. I think you could do better than my brother, but I still don’t want you hurt.”

“Thank you, Janet.”

Again Janet shrugged.

The next day what Janet had said came true. Probably because she had been put on her mettle, Gemma rode worse than ever through sheer nervousness; she had never been quite so bad. Beside Vida, she made a pitiful show. But beside Deborah, she looked, as Janet had said she would look, a fool. She could see that Bruce was plainly dismayed.

Deborah was sweet about it, however, even though while she was being solicitous and helpful she still was putting Arab, her big black horse, through some very difficult... and showy .. . paces.

After lunch, when Gemma laboriously climbed up on Frenchy, when Vida hooked a leg over Paulette and hauled herself on, Deborah simply vaulted herself up to Arab. She was absolutely fluid, a really magnificent poppy of a girl, and Bruce’s eyes followed her everywhere.

During the afternoon, things came to a head. Not the talking things that Gemma had dreaded, but the active things. Like riding.

There was a stampede. Bruce called it a “rush”.

The three girls and Bruce were at the side watching the mob’s progress under Bert, the head stockman. There was a thick pall of dust, but everything seemed to be going quietly.

Then something happened. A stir somewhere, a blown leaf, someone speaking in too loud a voice. Then it was on. The mob was churning around, dust was whirling, stockmen were racing in to bring back order, the dogs were doing their bit.

But Frenchy, insufficiently disciplined by Gemma, was galloping away from it all, galloping crazily, and Gemma knew she would never stay on.

It was just as she braced herself to fall that a hand took her rein and halted Frenchy, Gemma thought stupidly that it would be just the soil of thing for a film, instead of the desert hero, Bruce . .. except that in this instance it was Deborah saving her.

They all went home after that, and at Janet’s villa Bruce, said what Gemma had known he would.

“My dear Gemma, I know you want to please me, but I don’t think you’re up to this class of riding.”

“No, Bruce, I’ll stay at home tomorrow.”

“Good girl, it will really be a relief to know you’re back here and safe.”

Janet had strolled in.

“What happened?” she asked.

“There was a bit of a rush, and Frenchy took off.”

“What caused the rush?”

“Oh, good heavens, Janet, anything causes a rush with touchy cattle. You know that.”

“Like a stirrup rattle?”

“Or a loud voice or a blown leaf or anything of the sort,” said Bruce irritably.

“Like a stirrup rattle,” nodded Janet. After Bruce had gone, she added : “Deborah’s stirrup.”

“Oh, Janet!”

“It’s true. She’s putting the skids under you, Gemma.”

“If your mother was here she’d say why did I send Janet to an exclusive college?”

“Well, she won’t say why did I send Vida, because the answer will be to land something like Deborah.”

“She’s beautiful,” blurted Gemma.

“And a snake. Well, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

“I won’t say it... but, Janet, I still can’t do anything. You—you see—”

“Yes?”

Gemma looked away wretchedly. “I—I can’t tell you.”

“You're already married?” pounced Janet hopefully.

“No.”

“Secretly engaged?”

“No.”

“Then you love someone else?”

That was not so easy to answer. Gemma turned abruptly, leaving Janet to reach her own conclusion, and went to her room.

When she got there she sat a long time at the window. Why didn’t I reply to Janet just now? she asked herself. I don’t love anyone else. I can’t. Then she heard herself whispering something that Janet had said before the party. “He’s no good, you know”, Janet had told her. She had been speaking of the Territorian.

But why, Gemma wondered, was she remembering that now, and why did it matter whether he was good, bad or indifferent? He had nothing to do with her, or she with him, so that closed the matter.

Slowly, so slowly that it did not seem to be happening, an insidious change crept in.

The wedding was never mentioned now, neither by Mrs. Mannering nor Bruce.

Bruce was away with the mobs quite a lot, and Vida and Deborah always accompanied him. After the rush incident there was no need for any excuse for leaving Gemma at home. The first time Mrs. Mannering had said : “It would be wiser to wait until you’re more skilled, dear,” but following that she said nothing at all.

The engagement gifts had been packed away, where, Gemma neither knew nor cared. She did not care, either, that she had not seen them. As a matter of fact she cared about nothing lately . . . except Harriet, and, of course, Chris. But the Mitchells were still in Melbourne. Bruce had said so. He had had cause to ring up Boothagullagulla about some fencing detail and had been told they were still away.

Gemma’s heart had sunk. While Chris was as near as next door, even though that was a distance away, she had felt comforted. Now she felt bleak.

During the second week following the party, Mrs. Mannering began saying little things . . . significant things . . .

“If ever I saw a girl learn to be the mistress of a station, it’s Deborah.”

Then: “Deborah was telling me how her grandparents favoured her in their will instead of their own son. Of course Deborah will inherit from her parents, too, later on. She’s an only child. Such a young girl already to have so much money, yet so much more to come.”

Later: “What a strong, active type Deborah is. I always think dark hair indicates resilience in a woman, and she certainly is a raven-haired beauty.” Gemma always agreed. It meant nothing to her. She knew the ending now as surely as she knew day from night, and she knew, too, that as far as she was concerned there was no pain attached, only the embarrassment of waiting for it all to happen. She knew she could have made it happen at once, spared everyone the discomfort of that unnerving wait. She could have gone to Bruce and said: “We were too hasty.” He would have agreed, agreed with relief, that was very obvious, but something still stopped Gemma. She could not have said what it was.

But Deborah could, and did. Deborah sought her out the following morning, and after all the watching it came as a vast relief.

“Gemma, I’ve been waiting for you to come to me, but it seems I have to come to you.”

Gemma heard herself say coolly: “Which one of us is Mahomet and which one is the mountain?”

“We won’t go into that, but we will go into the time I saw you in the Alice Springs hotel.”

“But you didn’t. Remember? It was only a resemblance.” Gemma wondered at her blandness.

“It was you.” Deborah said bluntly. “No need for subterfuge now. You were with Tim Torrance.”

“So were you.”

“Oh, no, I
tried
to be, but he shook me off. I was piqued at the time. I’m considered exceedingly attractive. And then I saw you.”

“Go on, Deborah.”

“You’re attractive, too."

“Thank you.”

“To some people. Evidently to him.”

“Him ?” queried Gemma.

“The Territorian."

“Go on, Deborah,” Gemma invited again.

‘’I intend to.” A pause. “And shall I also tell you what I intend to do later?”

“If you want to.”

"I intend to marry Bruce Mannering. He attracts me, and I certainly attract him.” A little low laugh.

“But most attractive of all,” continued Deborah, “I find the prospect of being the future Mrs. Mannering of Mannering Park. Which the junior Mrs. Mannering must be, in time,”

“I expect so.”

“It appeals to me tremendously. I find Roberta’s role very absorbing. I like to be the leader, the decisionmaker.”

“Bruce—”

“Will never be. His mother has seen to that. He’ll be glad to have me take over.”

“You sound as though you've taken over already,” commented Gemma drily.

“It’s only waiting for you now, Gemma. You must make the next move.”

“What?”

“Oh, come, you don’t love Bruce. You never did. You don’t even like this place. You want to get away, but you can’t make the break.” There was another pause. A sly one. “And I know why.”

“Then if you do, it’s more than I know,” Gemma said miserably.

“But you’re still aware of a reluctance to leave, aren’t you?”

“I—I—Well, yes,” Gemma admitted with difficulty.

Deborah smiled thinly. “If the Mitchells were here, I think you would leave regardless.”

“Regardless?”

“Of that odd reluctance you somehow feel but still can’t explain. You would go to Boothagullagulla so that you didn’t have to desert the inland entirely, so that you didn’t have to close the gates.”

“Close the gates?” echoed Gemma.

“Go south,” impatiently. “Leave the top end.”

“You’re right,” Gemma said in wonder. How did this girl know when she had not known herself?

As though she had asked the question aloud, Deborah shrugged: “I’ve studied you. I think I know more about you than you know yourself.”

“Why have you studied me?”

“To get rid of you, of course.”

“You could have done that the next morning after the party. You could have gone to Bruce and his mother and said: ‘Miss Glasson was at The Alice with Torrance. I don’t know in which capacity!’”

“Yes, I could have done that, but I wanted it done differently. I’ll be living here, and I want no word of criticism. Any break must come from you. I know these country places. I know how things can be misconstrued, blown up out of all proportion, and you, Miss Glasson, the loser as well as being fair and small and fragile-looking, would undoubtedly emerge the winner. The talk would be that Bruce turned you down for me, and some ...
many
. .. wouldn’t like that at all. So you have to do the fading out, Gemma. You’ll be gone, so it won’t matter if there are any fingers pointed at you. If there is any talk you won’t be here. Well” ... a sly smile ... “not directly here.”