The first day, as I went down from my room in the lift, I remember distinctly a man getting in with a big lighted cigar in his mouth and his hat on his head. As he did not attempt to remove either, I fixed my eye on him with a stare that was meant to be significant. I was a snob in those days, though I did not realize it, till later on a working man asked me why I was so fond of talking of “common people.” “It’s the one thing I don’t rightly like about you,” he added, quite candidly and without malice. I have, I hope, been better since; anyhow, I have never forgotten what he said, or the aspect of affairs which his words opened to me. Well, all that the man with the hat and cigar did was to smile and make some remark about the weather, perfectly undaunted by my freezing glances. Then, as I still glared, his face dropped in a curiously hurt and childlike manner. At last, evidently realizing where my gaze was directed, he took off his hat, examined it thoughtfully, and, seeing nothing wrong, put it on again. Then he took out his cigar, looked at it curiously, replaced it in his mouth, and gave it a reassuring puff, as if to say it was certainly all right—so what could there be for me to stare at? Then suddenly I remembered the chambermaid and the pearls and all the other differences, and nodded and smiled my thanks as he stood aside to let me step first out of the lift; for they will always do that, if possible—it is one of the odd contradictions of them. As to the chambermaid and the pearls, which, to start with, reminds me of a story I heard of a girl up at a way-back hotel, whose name was Pearl. Some rowdy young larrikin, drinking among a crowd of associates, inquired if she was “the pearl of great price”; to which effort of wit she responded, with the greatest composure, that, on the contrary, she was “the pearl that was cast before swine”; for the progenitor of the untaught Australian brought a goodly share of mother-wit with him from London, in addition to his indelible accent. I was curled well up under the bedclothes on that first morning, with the sheet over my head, to try and keep out the glare. All the beds in Melbourne seem to be placed facing the light, and blinds are regarded apparently as a mere useless luxury. But I sat bolt upright in sheer amazement when the chambermaid first addressed me, with some palpable, but quite good-tempered jealousy in her voice:— “My word, but you do look comfy!”