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.
A snap of the gate between the bamboos added a metallic note to the tree's reedy whimperings, and the postman tramped along the short garden path and up the veranda steps.
'Morning, Mrs Gildea ...

a heavy mail for you!' He planked down the usual editorial packet--two or three rolls of proofs, a collection of newspapers, a bulky parcel of private correspondence sent on by the porter of Mrs Gildea's London flat, some local letters and, finally, two square envelopes, with the remark, as he turned away on his round.

'My word! Mrs Gildea, those letters seem to have done a bit of globe-trotting on their own, don't they!' For the envelopes were covered with directions, some in Japanese and Chinese hieroglyphics, some in official red ink from various postoffices, a few with the distinctive markings of British Legations and Government Houses where the Special Correspondent should have stayed, but did not--Only her own name showing through the obliterations, and a final re-addressing by the Bank of Leichardt's Land.
Mrs Gildea recognised the impulsive, untidy but characteristic handwriting of Lady Bridget O'Hara.
'From Biddy at last!' she exclaimed, tore the flap of number one letter, paused and laid it aside.

'Business first.' So she went carefully through the editorial communication.