“My Pa put that part in for fun.”

“Nonsense!” he said, and laughed. “You have a puckish sense of humour.”

I said nothing, so he tried a different tack. “Do you like pretty things?”

“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed with frank eagerness. “But my blue sash is the only pretty or expensive thing I have ever had, except of course, horses.”

“What a dashed shame! You would be a beauty in a different sort of way if you were properly tricked out. Let me plan a turn-out from sole to crown by some smart dress-maker—something to show your curves and pretty arms.”

In accordance with my upbringing it was an affront, almost an outrage to be offered clothes. Clothes could be offered with propriety only to a child or perhaps to a “person”, and we were not in the person class.

“Shall we take the colour of your eyes, your hair or your cheeks and work out a scheme? I’d just like to see the flutter you would cause if you were properly dressed.”

“Oh, please, my mother taught me not to accept presents from gentlemen.”

“Your mother was quite right, but I am different.”

“She told me that all the men would say that.”

He had a real good laugh; it was nice to hear him.

“Your mother made a good job of you, but it would be quite safe to take a little present from me. It wouldn’t . . .”

“It wouldn’t?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t—hang it all, little one, you know what I mean.”

I gazed at him in owl-like fashion, which I suddenly found most effective.

“Oh, well,” he said at length. “I must not expect you to run before you learn to walk in a new dimension. We must think out schemes for your future.”

He asked business-like questions about my means, and I told how poor we were and that I must earn my living and that I hated teaching and did not want to get married.

“Are you in love with anyone?” he demanded quite fiercely.

“Not one scrap. I never have been for a moment. I don’t want ever to get married.”

“That’s the best poem I’ve heard since I left London,” he laughed. “You can write, you know.”

“Do you really think so?”

“There isn’t anyone in Australia with your gifts today, but you must put them on the right rails for success. I can help you there if only we can have a little time to ourselves, without all the old cats miauling and ruining our game. You must get clear of the Old Campaigner for a start.”

“She is very kind; you could come there.”

“Faugh! Writers must have a retreat without anyone knowing where they are or what they are doing.”

He asked me my Sydney connections, which were Pa’s old-time parliamentary colleagues, especially Mr. Simms, the Minister for Education.

“We’ll go and see him,” said he.

I reminded him of Mrs. Thrumnoddy’s tea at the Australia, where he was going, and that she had said I must go because he was to be there.