This would have been inebriating if real, but Ma’s training was sticking to me splendidly. Was he going to “lead me astray”? It would be interesting to observe the preliminary stages. I was deprived of evening dress and dancing, but this would be something. Mr. Hardy was sympathetic about my cramped life, my desire to escape, but success, he said, had to be attacked from the jump and given no quarter. Could I stand up to the fray?

I had no more idea of what to do than a wild duck scared up from the reeds of its dam. Mr. Hardy put in that day instructing me. I must get away to London as soon as possible, while I was young and interesting. There was nothing for a person of real gifts here. I would soon be ruined if I lingered among the local cacklers. He used the same term as Mr. Wilting.

I timidly advanced my dream of there being an Australian soul on its own hook, and my desire to be part of its development. Phew! How severe Mr. Hardy was with me. That was a wicked socialistic notion which would ruin me socially and artistically. One should stick to the right crowd.

I gathered that I was well in the right crowd for a start, that I was the intimate of people who ruled the social roost, whom others—with money and position—strove to cultivate in vain. Stiff-necked egotism invaded me, for I felt it difficult to even my wits and ideas to many of the people I met, and they had B FLATS, but I did not expose my INEXPERIENCE.

I brought up the idea in a different form. Wouldn’t it be self-respecting for Australian literature to do something on its own hook? This was on account of his dictum that the first thing to do was to comb the gumleaves out of my hair.

“This tosh of doing things on your own or Australia’s hook, where did you get it? You want to use any hooks that come handy. The other fellows’ when you get the chance: they’ll use your hook if you don’t look out—without saying thank you. The whole secret of success is to beat the Philistines at their own game.”

I just sat and looked mousey. Even a fool is counted wise if she holds her peace.

“As for that notion of the brotherhood of man that you have, and loving the unwashed, anything in that direction is sheer drivel, drivel! Propaganda is fatal to any artist.”

“What does propaganda mean?” I enquired. I knew the word only as a joke to couple with improper geese.

“Aw!” he said impatiently, “it’s any of those luny ideas about the underdogs being superior because they have nothing, and the theory that their betters should support them in a velvet cage.”

“I see. It’s propaganda to advocate justice for the weak and helpless. What is it to uphold the rich?”

“Ha! Ha!” he chuckled. “It’s darned good business. It pays.”