I breakfasted early to escape the embarrassment of Gaddy’s presence. I ran down to the sea wall and, to my surprise, saw Derek and Big Ears disporting themselves in the shark-proof enclosure. Derek’s dazzling teeth appeared in a gay smile. He had evidently begun training—was really a friend in shouldering the job of curing Big Ears.

During the forenoon Mrs. Crasterton, Mrs. Simms and the Editor of the previous evening were in telephonic communication. Then Mrs. Crasterton asked me how I would like to remain in Sydney and do the WOMAN’S LETTER on one of the big newspapers. The present writer under the alias of Lady Jane, was paid seven pounds a week, but of course I could only be offered half that as a beginning. Even so, it seemed an enormous amount of money to have each week. Little me who never had a penny, at any rate not five pounds spent on me in a whole year! It was a dazzling prospect until I picked it to pieces.

What would I have to write? I should have to lackey around to all the SOCIETY affairs and describe Lady Hobnob’s dresses and Sir James’s wonderful cellar—in short kow-tow to a lot of people who had not advanced my search for something better than ‘Possum Gully. Quite the contrary: they were disappointing results of the opportunities for which I was avid. What was the present Lady Jane going to do? This was rather glozed over. She had been growing duller and duller. I would go around with her for a month to learn the ropes. But what would she do then? That was her problem, not mine, I was told. “But she would hate me for taking her position from her!”

“My dear, you’ll never be a success in society or the professions unless you are indifferent about hate or love. It’s a sign of your own worth sometimes if you are hated by the right people.”

That scared me off entirely. How could I take another woman’s livelihood from her? I would rather share what I had with her. It was described as a tragedy that I, with my talents, should return to feeding the pigs and milking the cows, and white-washing hearths and shining pot-lids—a poverty-stricken grind in a petty domesticity which I hated. Mrs. Simms said that nevertheless she was glad that I did not attempt the journalistic job, which for women of any mental capacity was so devitalising—writing rot about recipes and ball-dresses and becoming a disheartened and frustrated hack. I was so young yet, there was time for literary talent to develop. Writing was not, as some vocations, dependent upon youth. And that was that.

The glorious escape from ‘Possum Gully, or what was to have been a glorious escape, had ended in nothing but a wish to return to ‘Possum Gully as an escape from the escape that was not glorious.

That was a painfully flat day. Mrs. Crasterton had made arrangements exclusive of me, as for the past week I had been on my own hook. Edmée had gone to a garden party. I arranged my belongings ready for flight. Life seemed to have run aground. The Harbor was divine in the full day sun, brilliant blue but with a breath of haze like a veil, and little grey cow tracks all across it like sashes on the tides. The small waves whispered of the tides on the rocks covered with oyster shells and draped in seaweed with a grand sedgy odour. The gulls rocked about like paper boats at play. Out beyond the Heads the swelling Pacific towered high as a plain. Behind was the city so full of people, but nowhere in it had I found anyone to whom I could tell my perplexities with any hope of being understood or really helped. They would criticise and advise, but Ma and Great-aunt Jane had already furnished me with that kind of friendship and assistance.

I sat on the sea wall and looked down at the jetty at Pannikin Point. We always came home to Geebung Villa that way when we had no luggage needing a cab. Gaddy got off the ferry boat in company with a tall man. Gaddy added to the friction in my thoughts, so I stayed on the terrace with the camellias and watched the shipping. Presently he approached, calling me. When he appeared before me he flung out a leg and waltzed, an indulgence for aesthetic reasons improper to a corpulent man.

“Do you know who has put off his departure a whole day on purpose to see you—enough to give you swelled head, young woman. He heard about you on arrival, put in last night reading your book—guess who it is.”

“It couldn’t be Renfrew Haddington!”

“The very man! My idea of a real man and a literary josser combined—very rare, for I largely agree with old Wilting about local cacklers.”

Here was the really truly GREATEST AUSTRALIAN POET, but when a man had so many other distinctions it was easy to overlook this trifling indigenous dementia. He was known as one of the really influential journalists on the Australian press. He had represented the Melbourne Tribune in the Boer War. His despatches had been so sound that they had also been snapped up by London and American journals. His book on the war was considered a masterpiece alike by those who thought the war ignoble and by the swashbucklers. He had been lecturing in the United States and was on his way home.

Gad reminded me of all this, but I was not excited. I was subdued by campaign bruises. EXPERIENCE was teaching me that people sought me for their own entertainment, not for mine, and that those supposed to be interesting were frequently less so than those reported to be otherwise.

I had to return to the house with Gad, feeling insignificant and crest-fallen, but I did not care. This was my last night in Sydney. Pa and Ma had not been to Sydney for more than ten years, and as far as I could see it might be all that before I could come again.

Mr. Haddington came across the lawn to meet me as I kept behind Gaddy. He was tall and broad and brown, and there was something restful and enfolding about him so that I ceased to be driven to act any role whatsoever.

I drank of his understanding as I looked into his deep kind eyes, and gained assurance as he looked deeply back into mine. The world lit up with new possibilities. I was glad that Renfrew Haddington was alive and there holding me by the hand. I was refilled with the false hope of youth that happiness could come to me some day with shining face as a prince or knight and that a struggle to remain available for such an advent was worth while.

Manliness seemed to emanate from the man, with patience and strength as well as kindliness. He had bumpy features and iron grey hair, and no superfluous flesh. The eyes looked searchingly from cavernous sockets with an illumination of spirit which he could impart. Most men are so elemental that I suffocate in my antiquity of spirit by comparison, but Mr. Haddington suddenly made me feel young and overcoming as if the awful things in life could be reformed. Here was a soul and mind in which one could take refuge.

I do not remember saying much to him, yet I felt that he knew a better self of me than consciously existed. He was departing on the Melbourne Express, and could not stay to dinner.

“Men will always seek you for your sympathy and understanding,” he said, as he held my hand in parting.

I was late down to dinner, and as I came in, Edm&ea............