It seemed to me that it was not merely a matter of lifting the helpless, but that certain people could not find oil for the soul in them if they did not give ear to the still small voice of justice and fair play.

“Then I must go away and not see you any more for I don’t want to be so terribly hurt that I can’t bear it,” I murmured, applying Zoë’s recipe, to which I clung dumbly, refusing to explain or to add or subtract a syllable.

And that was the end of that little bit of psychological research.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

IN NEED OF A FRIEND.

There was a dismal letter from home awaiting me at Geebung Villa. Pa’s sciatica, Ma’s rheumatism, the rain gauge and every sign combined could not bring rain to the Southern District. It was in a ghastly state. Even the curlews were puzzled and the new moon unreliable. The rabbits, however, flourished unabatingly. Pa had been laying phosphorus baits and had got too many whiffs and was not well. Ma said I was needed at home to look after things.

It was time for me to go in any case. Otherwise I should lose my excursion ticket, and we had no money for an extra fare. I wrote to catch the mail to ’Possum Gully, stating when I should be in Goulburn. I had two more days in Sydney.

There was also a letter from Big Ears telling me he was going over the Gap if I continued to spurn his undying love. This scared me stiff. There would be a dreadful scandal. I should be regarded as a murderer, and no one would have any sympathy for a girl so unsexed as to write books. I could not handle this alone. Mrs. Crasterton would not quite understand. I longed for a friend. Edmée was no good in that respect except for me to admire. It was all on my side. Her vanity would be upset that Big Ears had transferred his aberration. She might blame me for being underhand. I shrank from Derek’s ridicule. Zoë, I felt, would be a tower of strength, but she had gone to Brisbane for a holiday.

Dear old Gaddy! He would understand. He would not lecture me about the way I did not want to go. I was ashamed that I had not appreciated Gaddy until this moment. He had given the blue sash in such a way that I could accept it. He had “shouted” all the plays and concerts that I had seen. Like Sister Anne on the parapet, or wherever she took up her stance, I had been looking for a knightly lover and had disregarded Gaddy because he had a double-chin and a girth like the mayor-and-corporation, and breathed so that I could always hear him if the conversation died down a little. He could not be idealised as a lover, but there had been more pestiferation than pleasure in lovers as known to me; and Gaddy’s person was formed to buttress friendship. I was famishing for a friend. When all is said and done, friendship is the only trustworthy fabric of the affections. So-called LOVE is a delirious inhuman state of mind: when hot it substitutes indulgence for fair play; when cold it is cruel, but friendship is warmth in cold, firm ground in a bog.