"Suits me," he said. "You got sandwiches?"

She nodded. "And beer."

"Say, you think of everything." He turned to the grazier. "I feel kind of mean taking your car like this," he said. "I could take the Chev, if you'd rather."

Mr. Davidson shook his head. "We went into Melbourne yesterday. I don't think we'll be going again. It's too depressing."

The American nodded. "Getting kind of dirty."

"Yes. No, you take the Ford. There's a lot of petrol might as well be used up, and I don't suppose that I'll be needing it again. There's too much to do here."

Dwight transferred his gear into the Ford and sent his leading seaman back to the dockyard with the Chev. "I don't suppose he'll go there," he said reflectively as the car moved off. "Still, we go through the motions."

They got into the Ford. Moira said, "You drive."

"No," he replied. "You'd better drive. I don't know the way, and maybe I'd go hitting something on the wrong side of the road."

"It's two years since I drove," she said. "But it's your neck." They got in and she found first gear after a little exploration, and they moved off down the drive.

It pleased her to be driving again, pleased her very much indeed. The acceleration of the car gave her a sense of freedom, of escape from the restraints of her daily life. They went by side roads through the Dandenong mountains spattered with guest houses and residences and stopped for lunch not far from Lilydale beside a rippling stream. The day had cleared up and it was now sunny, with white clouds against a bright blue sky.

They eyed the stream professionally as they ate their sandwiches. "It's muddy kind of water," said Dwight. "I suppose that's because it's early in the year."

"I think so," the girl said. "Daddy said it would be too muddy for fly fishing. He said you might do all right with a spinner, but he advised me to kick about upon the bank until I found a worm and dab about with that."

The American laughed. "I'd say there's some sense in that, if the aim is to catch fish. I'll stick to a spinner for a time, at any rate, because I want to see that this rod handles right."

"I'd like to catch one fish," the girl said a little wistfully. "Even if it's such a dud one that we put it back. I think I'll try with worm unless the water's a lot clearer up at Jamieson."

"It might be clearer high up in the mountains, with the melting snow."

She turned to him. "Do fish live longer than we're going to? Like dogs?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't know, honey."

They drove on to Warburton and took the long, winding road up through the forests to the heights. They emerged a couple of hours later on the high ground at Matlock; here there was snow upon the road and on the wooded mountains all around; the world looked cold and bleak. They dropped down into a valley to the little town of Woods Point and then up over another watershed. From there a twenty mile run through the undulating, pleasant valley of the Goulburn brought them to the Jamieson Hotel just before dusk.

The American found the hotel to be a straggling collection of somewhat tumble-down single-storey wooden buildings, some of which dated from the earliest settlement of the state. It was well that they had booked rooms, for the place was crowded with fishermen. More cars were parked outside it than ever in the palmiest days of peacetime; inside, the bar was doing a roaring trade. They found the landlady with some difficulty, her face aglow with excitement. As she showed them their rooms, small and inconvenient and badly furnished, she said, "Isn't this lovely, having all you fishermen here again? You can't think what's it's been like the last two years, with practically no one coming here except on pack horse trips. But this is just like old times. Have you got a towel of your own? Oh well, I'll see if I can find one for you. But we're so full. She dashed off in a flurry of pleasure.

The American looked after her. "Well," he said, "she's having a good time, anyway. Come on, honey, and I'll buy you a drink."

They went to the crowded barroom, with a boarded, sagging ceiling, a huge fire of logs in the grate, a number of chromium-plated chairs and tables, and a seething mass of people.

"What'll I get you, honey?"

"Brandy," she shouted above the din. "There's only one thing to do here tonight, Dwight."

He grinned, and forced his way through the crowd towards the bar. He came back in a few minutes, struggling, with a brandy and a whisky. They looked around for chairs, and found two at a table where two earnest men in shirt sleeves were sorting tackle. They looked up and nodded as Dwight and Moira joined them. "Fish for breakfast," said one.

"Getting up early?" asked Dwight.

The other glanced at him. "Going to bed late. The season opens at midnight."

He was interested. "You're going out then?"

"If it's not actually snowing. Best time to fish." He held up a huge white fly tied on a small hook. "That's what I use. That's what gets them. Put a shot or two on it, and sink it down, and then cast well across. Never fails."

"It does with me," his companion said. "I like a little frog. You get alongside a pool you know about two in the morning with a little frog and put the hook just through the skin on his back and cast him across and let him swim about… That's what I do. You going out tonight?"

Dwight glanced at the girl, and smiled. "I guess not," he said. "We just fish around in daylight-we're not in your class. We don't catch much."

The other nodded. "I used to be like that. Look at the birds and the river and the sun upon the ripples, and not care much what you caught. I do that sometimes. But then I got to this night fishing, and that's really something." He glanced at the American. "There's a ruddy great monster of a fish in a pool down just below the bend that I've been trying to get for the last two years. I had him on a frog the year before last, and he took out most of my line and then broke me. And then I had him on again last year, on a sort of doodlebug in the late evening, and he broke me again-brand-new, o.x. nylon. He's twelve pounds if he's an ounce. I'm going to get him this time if I've got to stay up all of every night until the end."

The American leaned back to talk to Moira. "You want to go out at two in the morning?"

She laughed. "I'll want to go to bed. You go if you'd like to."

He shook his head. "I'm not that kind of fisherman."

"Just the drinking kind," she said. "I'll toss you who goes and battles for the next drink."

"I'll get you another," he said.

She shook her head. "Just stay where you are and learn something about fishing. I'll get you one."

She struggled through the crowd to the bar carrying the glasses, and came back presently to the table by the fireside. Dwight got up to meet her, and as he did so his sports jacket fell open. She handed him the glass and said accusingly, "You've got a button off your pull-over!"

He glanced down. "I know. It came off on the way up here."

"Have you got the button?"

He nodded. "I found it on the floor of the car."

"You'd better give it to me with the pull-over tonight, and I'll sew it on for you."

"It doesn't matter," he said.

"Of course it matters." She smiled softly. "I can't send you back to Sharon looking like that."

"She wouldn't mind, honey…"

"No, but I should. Give it to me tonight, and I'll give it back to you in the morning."

He gave it to her at the door of her bedroom at about eleven o'clock that night. They had spent most of the evening smoking and drinking with the crowd, keenly anticipating the next day's sport, discussing whether to fish the lake or the streams. They had decided to try it on the Jamieson River, having no boat. The girl took the garment from him and said, "Thanks for bringing me up here, Dwight. It's been a lovely evening, and it's going to be a lovely day tomorrow."

He stood uncertain. "You really mean that, honey? You're not going to be hurt?"

She laughed. "I'm not going to be hurt, Dwight. I know you're a married man. Go to bed. I'll have this for you in the morning."

"Okay." He turned and listened to the noise and snatches of songs still coming from the bar. "They're having themselves a real good time," he said. "I still can't realize it's never going to happen again, not after this week-end."

"It may do, somehow," she said. "On another plane, or something. Anyway, let's have fun and catch fish tomorrow. They say it's going to be a fine day."

He grinned. "Think it ever rains, on that other plane?"

"I don't know," she said. "We'll find out soon enough."

"Got to get some water in the rivers, somehow," he said thoughtfully. "Otherwise there wouldn't be much fishing…" He turned away. "Good night, Moira. Let's have a swell time tomorrow, anyway."

She closed her door, and stood for a few moments holding the pull-over to her. Dwight was as he was, a married man whose heart was in Connecticut with his wife and children; it would never be with her. If she had had more time things might have been different, but it would have taken many years. Five years, at least, she thought, until the memories of Sharon and of Junior and of Helen had begun to fade; then he would have turned to her, and she could have given him another family, and made him happy again. Five years were not granted to her; it would be five days, more likely. A tear trickled down beside her nose and she wiped it away irritably; self-pity was a stupid thing, or was it the brandy? The light from the one fifteen-watt bulb high in the ceiling of her dark little bedroom was too dim for sewing buttons on. She threw off her clothes, put on her pyjamas, and went to bed, the pull-over on the pillow by her head. In the end she slept.

They went out next day after breakfast to fish the Jamieson not far from the hotel. The river was high and the water clouded; she dabbled her flies amateurishly in the quick water and did no good, but Dwight caught a two-pounder with the spinning tackle in the middle of the morning and she helped him to land it with the net. She wanted him to go on and catch another, but having proved the rod and tackle he was now more interested in helping her to catch something. About noon one of the fishermen that they had sat with at the bar came walking down the bank, studying the water and not fishing. He stopped to speak to them.