I should be relieved to escape to ’Possum Gully and leave my measley little pig-dog career behind me in Sydney.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

IT MIGHT Not HAVE BEEN.

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.