The Foot of Time: A Novel of Australia and the South Seas: (1933)

72
THE FOOT OF TIME
episode prompted her to forget her hatred of men,
and instruct Edith to invite her male friend, Bruce
Swinton, over to Manly.
ii0 Now Florence Tooth was at this time a well-
preserved spinster of sixty. Being particular as to
details, she would have described herself as "sixty
winters and a summer throw-in, my dear." Miss
Tooth possessed a charming and somewhat pretentious
home at Bower Street, facing and overlooking
pretty Fairy Bower. Fronted by the blue Pacific,
lay one of the world's grandest stretches of coastline,
upon whose shimmering, firm sand the surf
thundered in, wasting its energy untapped.
Back of the sand cool green Norfolk pines gave
shade, imported and planted by a far-seeing council.
All along, right away to the hill beyond which lies
Queenscliffe (ambitious like all Australia) , rough
tables under the pines invited picnickers. The invitations
were not issued unavailingly. Entire joints
of meat, jars of pickles, and all the paraphernalia
and appurtenances of a well-appointed dining room
table saw the light of day there. From copious
cars of every hue and shade, families poured out
their teams of children, games and refreshments.
But though the number of the children, packed
well nigh to the roof of many an automobile, was
of surprising magnitude, the quantity of viands
in the so-called "refreshments" surpassed them.
Looking out of the vantage point of her
high balcony window, Miss Tooth would discern
and chuckle with mirth at what her
powerful telescope, tripod-mounted, disclosed to
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THE FOOT OF TIME 73
her eagle eye. No wonder many a picnicker
went home with burning ears (and wondered
why) at the things Miss Tooth muttered to
herself about them if the telescope brought light
upon banana-skin, orange peel, or paper. But,
taken as a whole, the crowd behaved itself none too
badly. Australia is a long cry from ancient Europe;
it has sprung up like a mushroom in the night, but
it's devilish civilised when all is said and done. The
trouble is that in some respects it is not only keeping
pace with the times, but going too fast for
them. Europe tries to call a halt to curb too youthful
an ambition, but youth had ever a hard mouth,
delights always in lack of decorous convention,
tolerates any type of curb bit with but ill grace.
And who can blame it when the reason lays primarily
at the door of the vitality preserved for
things young and virile?
To the home, then, of Florence Tooth, bitter of
tongue, but soft of heart, came Bruce Arbuthnot—
Bruce Swinton—or Bruce whatever you like to dub
him. Best dub him Arbuthnot and have done with
it, for blood will out, and men of his father's type,
away out there under the shade of the eternal
snows, hand on an hereditary which is like to out,
too.
Edith was there to greet him. The girl met him
walking up the road from the jetty, and her sweet
face lit up.
"Pm glad you were able to come, Bruce," she
said, giving him that splendid little handshake of
hers, and then, the road being steep—steep and