“You are the quickest human being I ever saw,” he remarked. “You are carrying on like this just because you are upset by what your mother was telling me.”

“I’m not like what Ma says.”

“Oh, ho, what about that book?”

“It’s not real.”

“I don’t believe you are either. I have never seen anyone like you, and I’ve been about a bit in my time. I’ve had a bit too much time to be about in too,” he added, and laughed so infectiously that I nearly joined in.

“In that case,” said I, “you had better not waste any more time here.”

“Oh, I don’t grudge a little time to see if I can do anything to help my dear old friends with such a terrible daughter.”

I worked furiously at the bread-setting.

“Well now, tell me about the book.”

“I never talk about it. They all can think what they like. At least it has shown me how silly everyone is.”

“I thought it had shown how silly you were. That’s what I gathered from your cousins as I came along. They said it was the silliest goat of a book they ever read, and just what they expected as you are the silliest goat of a girl they have ever known.”

I just stood and looked at him. I had not Pa’s seasoning in meeting condemnation, especially from my cousins of whom I was so fond. At length I steadied enough to say, “At anyrate the greatest writer in Australia says I could be great some day if I develop.”

“That poet fellow! Does his word count for anything? Writers are just skites, aren’t they—half their time drunk and the rest of it cadging for a bit to eat?”

I was familiar with this point of view. All of my relations had it. None but Pa ever wrote so much as a letter to the newspapers, which put him among those sneered at as windbags trying to be important. I made the coffee and said, “You will be wanting your supper,” and went to the dining-room.

Mr. Beauchamp went around the house and came in from the front pretending that he had been to the stables to let his horses out. Pa and Mr. Blackshaw were still talking. I went to bed, leaving Ma to dispense supper. Another tortured night. I was so fond of my cousins. I always defended them if anyone dared to say they were not the prettiest liveliest girls up the country.

Mr. Beauchamp and Pa left early in the morning and did not return until dinner time.

CHAPTER NINE.

IT WAS ALL REAL, BUT HOW MUCH WAS TRUE?

Mr. Beauchamp came straight to the kitchen after seeing about his horses.

“Last night you were quite put off your stride by what your mother and cousins think of you.”

“If you don’t mind, the subject is closed.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t,” he said with his provokingly contagious laugh. “You were afraid it would affect my opinion of you.”