o are doing interesting things. It's not
Paris or London, you know, but----'

He had a trick of using a radiant smile in place of articulation, by
way of finishing a sentence; and I found it more eloquent than any
words, and, to me, more subtly flattering. It said so clearly, and
more tactfully than words: 'But you follow me, I see; I know _you_
understand me.' And I felt with rare delight that I could and did
follow this fascinating man, and understand all his airy allusions to
things as far beyond the purview of my present life and prospect as
the heavens are beyond the earth, or as Mr. Rawlence was above an
'inmate' of St. Peter's. To a twentieth-century English artist, Mr.
Rawlence might have seemed a shade crude, possibly rather pompous and
affected, somewhat jejune and trite, perhaps. But our talk took place
in the 'seventies of last century, in New South Wales. The Board
School was a new invention in England, and in Australia there was
quite a lot of bushranging still to come, and the arrival of
transported convicts had but recently ceased.

I have not attempted to set down anything like the whole of the talk
between the artist and myself; rather, to indicate its quality. Much
of it, I dare say, was trivial, and all of it would appear so in
written form. Its effect upon me was altogether out of proportion to
its real significance, no doubt. It was all new talk to me, but I
admit it is not easy now to understand its profoundly stirring and
inspiring influence. A casual phrase or two, for example, affected my
thoughts for long months afterwards. Mr. Rawlence said:

'There's an accomplishment coming into general use now that might help
you enormously: phonography, shorthand-writing, you know. I am told it
will mean a revolution in ordinary clerical work, and newspaper work
already rests largely on it. The man who can write a hundred words a
minute--I think that's about what they manage with it--will command a
good post in any office, or on any newspaper, I should think. I should
certainly learn shorthand, if I were you. Perhaps you could get them
to introduce it here.'

I thought of Sister Agatha, and pictured myself suggesting to her the
introduction of shorthand into our curriculum in the Orphanage school.
And at the same moment I recalled the occasions, only yesterday, upon
which I had had to 'hold out' my hand to this bitterly enthusiastic
wielder of the cane. My palms had purple weals on them at that moment