Dulcie. The first is enough; I am afraid you are inclined to be a Crusader too, as far as romantic enthusiasm goes—still it's a fault on the right side, and will be cured by colonial and other experience. Firstly, you must sell this selection.
Egremont. What! sell my farm—my home—my first venture in this new world?
Dulcie. Stuff and nonsense! It's poor dad's Run, to begin with, and you ought never to have touched it! You wouldn't, either, if you'd known how hard he worked for it before I was born.
Egremont (meditatively). How could it be his; or, if so, how did the Government sell it to me? (Placing his hand to his forehead) I never shall understand the Land Act of this country. But don't ask me to sell my—my—birthright!
Dulcie (decisively). You've promised me, and you must sell it. Of course if you prefer living here by yourself as a 'hatter'—for I'll never come into it—you may keep it.
Egremont. (Aside—A hatter!—is that a legal term in this most perplexing Act? What can she mean? However, I surrender unconditionally.) To whom shall I sell it?
Dulcie. That's a good boy and he shall be rewarded. Go into the township and ask for the office of Mr. Bonus Allround, the lawyer; offer it to him, and he'll give you a cheque for it. How much has it cost you? Thousands by this time, I suppose.
Egremont. Really more than any one would suppose. Firstly, the deposit, five shillings per acre—and seed wheat—and other things.
Dulcie. Oh, of course, I forgot! Well, value all your improvements, loss of time, etc. You have lost plenty of time, you know, talking to me. We won't say yet whether you mightn't have done worse. But put it all down, every shilling; add your own time at a pound a week—you're not quite worth that, but he'll pass it to get the land. He'll pay you the money sharp, and all you have to do is to sign a transfer.
Egremont. Seems simple enough—only turn myself out of house and home. Well, after that little step?