sation, but a mere
gap in civilisation. Pioneering is picturesque enough--in fiction. In
fact, it permits of no leisure and no idealisation; and without those
things----'

Mr. Rawlence paused with outstretched hands, shrugging shoulders, and
the smile of one who should say--'You understand, of course.' My
modest contribution was in three words, delivered with emphatic
gestures of acquiescence--'That's just it.'

'Exactly,' resumed the artist. 'Without leisure, without time for
anything outside the material things of life, where is your culture?
Where is art? Where is romance? Where, in short, is civilisation? And
so, as I say, I cannot advise you to stick to the country here. No,
one really can't conscientiously advise that, you know.'

A listener might fairly have supposed that I was a young gentleman of
means who had sought advice as to the desirability of investing
capital in rural New South Wales, and taking up, say, the pastoral
life, in preference to a professional career in Sydney. I pinched my
knees exultingly; perhaps to demonstrate to myself the fact that all
this was no dream. It was I, the orphan, who was carrying on this
thrilling conversation with an accomplished man of the world, a
distinguished artist. I felt that Mr. Rawlence must clearly be a
distinguished artist.

'And so what--what would you advise me to do?' I asked when a pause
came. And, immediately, I reproached myself, feeling that I had broken
a delightful spell, and risked abruptly ending the most interesting
conversation in which I ever took part. The words of my question had
so crude a sound. They dragged our talk down to a lower plane, to a
plane merely utilitarian, almost squalid by comparison with the
roseate heights we had been easily skimming. That was how the sound of
my own poor words struck me; but my companion was not so easily
dashed. My crudity could not fret his accomplished _savoir-faire_.
(Mr. Rawlence impressed me as the most finished man of the world I had
ever met, with the single exception of my father; and, indeed, the
Sydney artist did shine brightly beside the sort of people I had lived
among of late.)

'Well,' he said, with smiling thoughtfulness, 'I would advise you,
when--when the time comes, to make your way to Sydney, and to--to work
up a place for yourself there. Of course, there is your native
country--England. Who knows? Some day, perhaps-- But, meantime, I
think Sydney offers better chances than any other