A charming vintage romance (published 1890), so long as you accept the terms of the colonialist mindset: that Australia is a vast "uncivilized" barren landscape and that England is culturally superior but so repressed it considers enthusiasm to be gauche.
Hornung clearly loves Australia as much as he does the suburbs of London: he describes the bush with such care that I, who have never been there, felt I could picture it vividly and saw its beauty. This book is a romance in that it features a loving couple finding their way, complete with passion and melodramatic ending, but it doesn't follow the beats of a traditional genre romance as it is more about contrasting two societies than the "how" of their love. In that sense, this is a very fine portrait of English high society, complete with its faux-polite pettiness and refusal to communicate openly. If you enjoy an unsubtle but keenly observant Edwardian comedy of manners, this is well done.
One reference to a "black" laborer in the outback but otherwise free from slurs or detailed bigotry. The absence (unimportance) of indigenous Aboriginal Australians haunts this narrative, which I suppose is preferable to ugly caricatures.