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, tough though they were from outdoor work. I clenched my hands involuntarily, and was thankful the artist could not see their palms. That would have been a horrid humiliation; the very thought of it made me flush. No, this shorthand would hardly be introduced at St. Peter's; but I would learn it, I thought, all the same; and in due course I did, to find (again in due course) that even the acquisition of this mystery hardly represented quite the infallible key to fame and fortune that Mr. Rawlence thought it in the 'seventies.

But my attitude toward this sufficiently casual suggestion was typical of the immensely stirring and impressive influence which all the artist's talk of that day had upon me. It was undoubtedly most kindly of him to show all the interest he did in one from whom he could not by any stretch of the imagination be said to have anything to gain. We were quite old friends, he said, in his amiable way, by the time evening approached, and we began to pack up his paraphernalia. My crowning triumph came when, in leaving, he gave me his card, and wrote my full name down in his dainty little pocket-book.

'When you do get to Sydney you must come and look me up without fail. My studio is at the address on the card, and I'm generally to be found there. Mind, I shall expect a call as soon as you arrive, and we will talk things over. I'm certain you'll reach Sydney, by and by. Like London, at home, you know, it's the magnet for all the ambitious here. Good-bye, and best of good luck!'

'Mr. Charles Frederick Rawlence, Filson's House, Macquarie Street, Sydney,' was what I read on the card. And then, in very small type in one corner, 'Studio, 3rd Floor.'

I think it had been the most vividly exciting day in my life up till then; and, though still an orphan, and officially an 'inmate,' I walked among the clouds that night; a giant among dwarfs and slaves by my way of it. Youth--aye, the immemorial magic of it was alive in my blood on this spring night, if you like; and not all the Sister Agathas in all the hierarchy of Rome had power to dull the wonder of it!

VI

'If it's to be done at all, why not now? There's nothing to be gained by waiting. I'm only wasting time.'