New Year’s Day had been fixed originally for the great event: but the Clerk of the Weather had been singularly tactless, and had ushered in the New Year with such deluges of rain that hurried telegrams had been sent to Sale and Bairnsdale and other district towns, postponing the regatta; and hundreds of would-be excursionists had unpacked their luncheon-baskets and remained at home. But to-day was to make amends for all disappointments.  Rain had fallen, just enough to clear the air and secure the very perfection of autumn weather, while laying the dust on the roads for the folk who rode and drove.  The sands were dry and firm: the hummocks shone white against the sky, across the lagoon.  There was just enough breeze for sailing—enough to dot the lake with tiny wavelets, gleaming and dancing in the sun. Just to look at that blue, restless surface was enough to set the heart dancing, too.