THE IMPERIALIST's Special Correspondent looked worried. She was
wondering whether the English mail expected to-day would bring her
troublesome editorial instructions. She examined some of the
photographs and drawings with a dissatisfied air. A running
inarticulate commentary might have been put into words like this:

'No good . . . I can manage the letterpress all right once I get the
hang of things. But when it comes to illustrations, I can't make even a
gum-tree look as if it was growing . . . . And Gibbs hates having
amateur snapshots to work up . . . . Hopeless to try for a local
artist. . . . I wonder if Colin McKeith could give me an idea. . . . . Why
to goodness didn't Biddy join me! . . . . If she'd only had the decency to
let me know in time WHY she couldn't. . . . Money, I suppose--or a
Man! . . . . Well, I'll write and tell her never to expect a literary
leg-up from me again . . .'

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.

on an envelope, into which she slipped her letter--a letter never to
be sent.