"This is early for you," I said.
"It's early for anyone but a born fool," he answered.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "Can't you sleep?"
"Can't I sleep?" he retorted indignantly. "Why, I daren't sit down
upon a seat, I daren't lean up against a tree. If I did I'd be
asleep in half a second."
"What's the idea?" I persisted. "Been reading Smiles's 'Self Help
and the Secret of Success'? Don't be absurd," I advised him.
"You'll be going to Sunday school next and keeping a diary. You have
left it too late: we don't reform at forty. Go home and go to bed."
I could see he was doing himself no good.
"I'm going to bed," he answered, "I'm going to bed for a month when
I've finished this confounded novel that I'm on. Take my advice," he
said--he laid his hand upon my shoulder--"Never choose a colonial
girl for your heroine. At our age it is simple madness."
"She's a fine girl," he continued, "and good. Has a heart of gold.
She's wearing me to a shadow. I wanted something fresh and
unconventional. I didn't grasp what it was going to do. She's the
girl that gets up early in the morning and rides bare-back--the
horse, I mean, of course; don't be so silly. Over in New South Wales
it didn't matter. I threw in the usual local colour--the eucalyptus-
tree and the kangaroo--and let her ride. It is now that she is over
here in London that I wish I had never thought of her. She gets up
at five and wanders about the silent city.
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