“Pay a bob! Why, it’s worth a quid, man, and cheap at the price!”
* * * * *
On his second visit to the Professor, Huey got on speaking terms with Bertha, and that young lady, instinctively seeing, or feeling, the conquest she had made, added more gracious smiles and still more gracious words to ensnare her victim. And yet there was a certain haughtiness and reserve about her that repelled familiarity, and perhaps added to her charm.
“It must be very nice for you,” said Huey at this interview, “to be travelling about the country, seeing all the different towns and people; not confined, a poor creature like myself, to one dull little place.”
“So I thought,” replied Bertha, “when the Professor persuaded me to make this journey with him, but I am heartily tired of it. Out of Sydney you are buried, fairly buried, and what is there to see but the same old bush and the same old stupid people wherever you go. It is all very well for the Professor; he finds wonderful ‘subjects,’ as he calls them, everywhere. I don’t know how many possible Shakespeares and Miltons he has not discovered. To hear him, you would think the bush was just running over with talent. He says it is only accident that brings great men to the front, and that for one that is known, hundreds are lost to themselves and everybody else. Now what is the good, I want to know, of being as clever as clever can be, if you have to waste it all on wallabies and cockatoos?”
And here it seemed to Huey that Bertha’s words had a personal address, that she already felt an interest in him, and, in this indirect way, was summoning him to a new life.
“But what is a fellow to do—one of those clever men you speak of, I mean? How is he to get out of the rut? What is the good of being clever, anyway? Like the Professor, for instance. He is not very rich, I suppose?”
“Oh, poor old Pro! Rich?—no! And never will be. His one desire is to spread what he calls the ‘Light of Modern Research’; but it’s my belief that people don’t want his ‘Light,’ or anybody else’s. Every one thinks himself so clever, you know. And when you try and prove to them they are just ignorant and stupid, they don’t like it.”
“And what do you think of it all, Miss Summerhayes?”
“I am afraid I am one of the stupid, ignorant people! I just want to be like everybody else—no better, no worse. Only let me be where there is somebody—some life. This is my last appearance on the platform. Once in Sydney, there I stop. Dear old Sydney! I had no idea what a delightful place it was till I had spent twelve months amongst gum-trees, post-and-rail fences, and bark huts.”