“Of course you can’t. And if it’s a tender sort of aura, of course it feels the bump.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it,” cried Harriet. “He must be just one big bump, by the way he grumbles.”
They all laughed—perhaps a trifle uneasily.
“I thought so,” said Jack. “What made you come here? Thought you’d like to write about it?”
“I thought I might like to live here—and write here,” replied Somers smiling.
“Write about the bushrangers and the heroine lost in the bush and wandering into a camp of bullies?” said Jack.
“Maybe,” said Somers.
“Do you mind if I ask you what sort of things you do write?” said Jack, with some delicacy.
“Oh—poetry—essays.”