trying to tie me down--they were always looking for faults. That's
enough to make a man go to the devil."

"Is it? Tell me all about it," she said, drawing a little closer.

"Do you know," he cried bitterly, so intent that he forgot his
nervousness and did not stammer, "I was the best man in my year. They
all told me so, the Dean and everyone--but I never had a chance. I never
got a free hand. And now do you know what I am? All because they never
understood me?"

She shook her head wonderingly.

"I'm a remittance man."

"What's that?"

"Don't you know? They're very picturesque in fiction! You'll find
h-h-heaps of them in Australia, spewed out as far as possible from the
Old Country! It's the dumping ground, Australia is!"

"I don't understand," she said.

"I went to church with the Mater last Sunday. I suppose she thought it
would induce the right atmosphere--something sacrificial, you know. We
yawped some psalms--the Mater and Pater are great at that. There was
one bit I noticed particularly--'Moab is my washpot, over Edom will I
cast my shoe.' That reminds me of Australia. They kick us out, pitch us
out over there like old boots."