“Do you think I should read your book?” Mr. Beauchamp asked later.

“I wish you would never read it, but I can’t make out why you are interested in me, if you haven’t.”

“All the hubbub has brought you to my attention, like a filly that is advertised. I could not make out why Moongudgeonby was suddenly being called Five-Bob Downs, and found that it was because in a book written by some bit of a kid no bigger than a bee’s knee, Five-Bob Downs was owned by Harold Beecham, so people have the cheek to call me that. Some of them have asked me when I am going to settle down with Sybylla Melvyn. The young fellows say I am a lucky devil, that they would have a shot for themselves only that I am the hero of your dreams. I took it as a bit of chyacking while I was in Queensland, but when I got back to Gool Gool people buzzed like a swarm of bees. I thought it a rum thing that a girl could change the name of a place christened by the blacks hundreds of years ago. She must be a witch who could pull the wool over my eyes and have me tied up before I knew where I was, and I value my freedom.”

I began to feel worse than when Old Grayling’s letter came.

“I never thought of you—never heard of you,” I gasped weakly.

“But Harold Beecham is the fellow that all the girls are wild to see, and all the men are envious of.”

“But your name is Henry Beauchamp,” I murmured, wishing I could hide for a year.

“But I was nearly christened Harold, and Beauchamp is pronounced Beecham.”

“Harold is my favourite name—Harold Earl of Kent, who fell at the Battle of Hastings with an arrow through his eye. A tragic thing to be conquered by an outsider. You have not the slightest resemblance to the Harold in the book. The name is a mere coincidence.” My voice would hardly come.

“Ha! Ha! A jolly coincidence. I know half-a-dozen young fellows who are pretending they are Harold Beecham without the name. When I found out you were Dick Melvyn’s youngster I was more astonished than ever, and came along to take a look at you. As soon as I clapped an eye on you I decided that I was going to take up my option.”

“What option?”

“On you. You proposed to me. I accept with alacrity. I would not have thought an oldster like me had a chance, only you put it in my head. I always go for first-class things and leave the ordinary stuff to the rabble.”

All the shame I had hitherto felt rolled into one lump was an infant to what I felt now. I, who would rather have died than “throw myself at a man”, seemingly had done just that. Ma was quite correct. There was no end to the annoyance caused by that feraboraceous book. I turned sick all through to think what further embroglios might spring from it. More and more I understood Ma, and was sorry for what I had brought upon her.