Tibby was on his knees again.

‘I am gunna get married,’ Miss Slattery said, ‘and have a washing-machine.’

‘Yaÿ-yaÿ-yaÿ! Petuska!’

Then Miss Slattery took a look at Tibby’s eyes, and re-discovered a suppliant poodle, seen at the window of an empty house, at dusk. She had never been very doggy, though.

‘Are you ze Defel perheps?’ cried Tibby Szabo.

‘We Australians are not all that unnatural,’ she said.

And hated herself, just a little.

As for Tibby Szabo, he was licking the back of her hand.

‘Vee vill make a finenshul arrangement. Pretty substenshul.’

‘No go!’ Miss Slattery said.

But that is precisely what she did. She got up and pitched the grazier’s stockwhip out of the window, and when she had put on her clothes, and licked her lips once or twice, and shuffled her hair together – she went

1‘Only one little girl
in the world,
and she is
my dear little dove!

The good God
must love me indeed
to have given me
the most beautiful one!’

The Letters

Mrs Polkinghorn remembered she ought to write a letter of sympathy to Maud. Any illness tended to irritate her, but dear funny old Maud Bles, so loyal, if so colourless, she must really say something about Maud’s blood pressure. Or was that Sibyl Farnsworth? No, Sibyl’s sounded far more technical.

Mrs Polkinghorn still enjoyed sitting down at her marquetry desk in the morning-room, and dashing off a few letters, many of them unnecessary, after her pretence of a breakfast. It seemed, in these days, to uphold her status. She was lucky in having Harriet, who would not last for ever, though.

Mrs Polkinghorn’s breath caught.

‘Charles?’ she called, not for any particular reason.

No answer.

She chose a sheet of the second-best writing-paper – the lettering was nicely engraved, however:

WISHFORT,

SARSAPARILLA,

N.S.W.

Then Mrs Polkinghorn was ready.

Dearest Maud (she wrote, in what had been referred to as her bold hand)

I can think of nothing more tiresome than to be told to ‘go slow’! You can imagine how distressed we, too, shall be, since it will deprive us of your little annual visit. The blossom at ‘Wishfort’ promises to be particularly fine this year, and you do so love it. Still, we must bear our crosses.

I broke the news to Charles, who received it in silence. But I know he will sadly miss the company of his beloved Auntie Maud on the important occasion. I did have hopes of coaxing him out to our matinée this year, especially as this will be his fiftieth birthday. I cannot believe it! Though of course there is every evidence. Indeed, at times Charles acts so old he makes his poor mother feel positively young!

Here Mrs Polkinghorn was unable to resist a glance. Her eyes could still ravish the glass.

Maud, dear, it is not my habit, as you know, to load others with my troubles, but your god-son has been worrying me more than usual. There is nothing one can put one’s finger on . . .