I remember these among his exclamations and comments upon my story. And then he asked me what ideas I had about my future, and I told him, none. I also told him of Ted's visit and of his offer to me, and my refusal of it. 'Yes,' he said, 'that was wise of you, I think; that certainly was best. In some countries now, in the Old World, one might advise you to stick to the country. But here-- Well, you know, there must be some real reason for the rapid growth of the Australian capital cities, and the comparative stagnation of the countryside. The more cultured people won't leave the capitals, and that affects country life. Yes, but why won't they leave the cities? They do in the Old World, for I've met 'em in the villages and country towns there. But why is it?' Mr. Rawlence could hardly have expected an answer from me; but part of his charm was that he made it seem, while he talked and I listened, that we were jointly discussing the subject of his monologue, and that he was much interested by my views. He had that air; his smile and his manner made one feel that. 'Well, you know,' he continued, 'it must be partly the crude material difficulties which the actual and physical conditions of country life here present to educated people, and partly the fact that our country in Australia has got no traditions, no associations, no atmosphere. It is just a negation, a wilderness; not a rural civilisation, but a mere gap in civilisation. Pioneering is picturesque enough--in fiction. In fact, it permits of no leisure and no idealisation; and without those things----' Mr. Rawlence paused with outstretched hands, shrugging shoulders, and the smile of one who should say--'You understand, of course.' My modest contribution was in three words, delivered with emphatic gestures of acquiescence--'That's just it.' 'Exactly,' resumed the artist. 'Without leisure, without time for anything outside the material things of life, where is your culture? Where is art? Where is romance? Where, in short, is civilisation? And so, as I say, I cannot advise you to stick to the country here. No, one really can't conscientiously advise that, you know.' A listener might fairly have supposed that I was a young gentleman of means who had sought advice as to the desirability of investing capital in rural New South Wales, and taking up, say, the pastoral life, in preference to a professional career in Sydney. I pinched my knees exultingly; perhaps to demonstrate to myself the fact that all this was no dream. It was I, the orphan, who was carrying on this thrilling conversation with an accomplished man of the world, a distinguished artist. I felt that Mr. Rawlence must clearly be a distinguished artist.