“I expect he can’t help himself.” Mr. Hardy laughed shortly, with a tantalising gleam in his brilliant eyes.

Edmée appeared in her grand pale green satin with the foamy cloak half-slipping from her shoulders, and made soft coo-ing explanations of poor dear Mrs. Crasterton’s indisposition. Mr. Hardy instantaneously changed into a different man, with a face as grave as a judge’s and which suddenly looked lined and old. He talked in a high tenor drawl and asked if he might telephone.

While he was out, Edmée remarked, “You look all lighted up. Getting your heart cracked right at the jump?”

A little giddy, I said, “He might fall in love with me. Other men have.” Roderic Quinn, Banjo Paterson, John Farrell, Rolf Boldrewood, E. J. Brady, Sidney Jephcott, Henry Lawson, Victor Daley and others had all taken notice of me in some way—some had flattered me in verses and voices of many colours, two had even kissed me—in a fraternal fashion, I ween.

“You little softy! The idea of Goring Hardy falling in love with any woman for more than a week! I heard today from old friends that it was suggested by a high official that he had better take a trip to Australia. That explains why he would waste his time here in his prime. He was much too friendly with a certain titled lady—a relative of royalty, and the husband threatened to use him as co-respondent. That bird is not to be caught with chicken feed.”

We went in to dinner. Mr. Hardy made orthodox remarks with orthodox politeness, that politeness called chivalry, which women are expected to accept in lieu of their rightful control of the race and the ordering of life with sanity and justice for their children.

Mr. Hardy ignored me entirely. Edmée took it as a matter of course that he should. I was twittering internally to realise that little me from ’Possum Gully was in a SOCIETY scene at last. Here was a belle who drove men to distraction, palpitating her snowy bosom and twitching her shoulders so that no contour was wasted, and languishing and ogling in the exercise of sexual attraction on a man who had been clandestinely loved by a titled married lady (there were always clandestine affairs in the novels of lords and ladies I had read) and wearing silk socks. I had never before seen a man wearing silk socks. My own were cashmere, and Mrs. Thrumnoddy earned money by describing them as cotton. Think of the EXPERIENCE I was imbibing in sophistication, in savoir faire—taking these two out of winding.

Mr. Hardy did not seem in a hurry during dinner, and acceded to Edmée’s invitation to coffee before running away. He said he had telephoned, and had a half-hour longer than he expected. In the drawing-room they continued to ignore me, but I sometimes found those hard bright eyes on me in a stimulating way. Edmée gave him all sorts of gossip interesting to a homecomer. I took refuge in a big album. Here were people who by their style of dress had been old when I was born. I forgot Edmée and Mr. Hardy in wondering how many of these album people still lived, how many had gone into that awful silence, which I hate and resent.