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Mrs Gildea pulled the sheet she had been typing out of the machine, inserted another, altered the notch to single spacing and rattled off at top speed till the page was covered. The she appended her signature and wrote this address: To the Lady Bridget O'Hara, Care of Eliza Countess of Gaverick, Upper Brook Street, London, W.
'I'd forgotten all about the Pineapple Products Exhibition, and I just dropped in at Government House to pay my respects after a pleasant dinner two nights ago What you'd call a visit of digestion. 'And since when, Colin, have you become an observer of social obligations? jeered Mrs Gildea. He grinned, 'Ah! you have me there.
But I don't think I could have stood the drudgery and I should have hated the publicity of it all.... Joan, how did you ever manage to make yourself independent? 'By drudging, said Mrs Gildea dryly. 'Besides, I was born differently. And I was brought up with practical people. 'Mr McKeith, for instance.
'Love, religion and doctors! As emotional interests, do they come to the same thing for elderly women? repeated Mrs Gildea, as if she were propounding a syllogism. 'No, certainly not, when the elderly woman happens to be a hard-working journalist. 'Oh, there you have the pull I suggested the idea to Rosamond the other day and she gave a true Rosamondian answer.
'This is temperate zone for me after the Leura.... But it's a hot March because we haven't had a proper rainy season, and I'll just stand here and catch the breeze for a minute or two before I sit down. He balanced himself on the veranda railing: took off his broad-brimmed Panama hat and mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. Mrs Gildea surveyed him with interested admiration.
Lord Gaverick did not marry again, and Mrs Gildea had gathered that the less said about his social adventures the better. Financially, he had subsisted precariously as a company promoter. There had come a final smash: and one morning the Earl of Gaverick had been found dead in his bed, an empty medicine bottle by his side.
'I suppose you know that's a quotation, she said. 'Weren't you a bit out? he answered, and repeated the phrase. 'Excuse my correcting you. Bridget shrugged. 'Thank you. But I always thought men of action weren't great readers. How did you do your reading? 'Some day if you care to hear I'll tell you. She looked at him interestedly. 'Yes, I should care to hear. 'Not now, put in Mrs Gildea.
Mrs Gildea sighed as she read, and pictured in her imagination the wild wastes of the Never-Never Land and the rough head-station which was to be Lady Bridget's home. It was the way of the O'Haras to do things first and to consider afterwards whether it were well or ill that they should be done. Many a ruined O'Hara might have fared differently in life's battle had he thought before he acted.
Mrs Gildea, those letters seem to have done a bit of globe-trotting on their own, don't they!
She ran her eye anxiously over the badly-typed slips, which, with their marginal corrections and smart, allusive jargon of a world entirely removed from Colin McKeith's experience, might easily have misled him into the belief that he was reading literary 'copy. Of course he knew that Joan Gildea wrote novels as well as journalistic stuff. He read her thoughts. 'You needn't worry.
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