Fee's eyes were no longer up to anything beyond the uttermost effort of keeping the books, but the mind at back of those smudged pupils was as acute as ever.

"How could I possibly know what Justine just told you?" she inquired mildly, regarding the green cookies with a slight shudder.

"Because sometimes it strikes me that you and Jussy have little secrets from me, and now, the moment my daughter finishes telling me her news, in you walk when you never do."

"Mmmmmm, at least they taste better than they look," commented Fee, nibbling. "I assure you, Meggie, I don't encourage your daughter to conspire with me behind your back. What have you done to upset the applecart now, Justine?" she asked, turning to where Justine was pouring her sponge mixture into greased and floured tins.

"I told Mum I was going to be an actress, Nanna, that's all."

"That's all, eh? Is it true, or only one of your dubious jokes?"

"Oh, it's true. I'm starting at the Culloden."

"Well, well, well!" said Fee, leaning against the table and surveying her own daughter ironically. "Isn't it amazing how chidren have minds of their own, Meggie?"

Meggie didn't answer.

"Do you disapprove, Nanna?" Justine growled, ready to do battle.

"I? Disapprove? It's none of my business what you do with your life, Justine. Besides, I think you'll make a good actress."

"You do?" gasped Meggie.

"Of course she will," said Fee. "Justine's not the sort to choose unwisely, are you, my girl?"

"No." Justine grinned, pushing a damp curl out of her eye. Meggie watched her regarding her grandmother with an affection she never seemed to extend to her mother.

"You're a good girl, Justine," Fee pronounced, and finished the cookie she had started so unenthusiastically. "Not bad at all, but I wish you'd iced them in white."

"You can't ice trees in white," Meggie contradicted.

"Of course you can when they're firs; it might be snow," her mother said.

"Too late now, they're vomit green," laughed Justine.

"Justine!"

"Ooops! Sorry, Mum, didn't mean to offend you. I always forget you've got a weak stomach."

"I haven't got a weak stomach," said Meggie, exasperated.

"I came to see if there was any chance of a cuppa," Fee broke in, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Put on the kettle, Justine, like a good girl."

Meggie sat down, too. "Do you really think this will work out for Justine, Mum?" she asked anxiously.

"Why shouldn't it?" Fee answered, watching her granddaughter attending to the tea ritual.

"It might be a passing phase."

"Is it a passing phase, Justine?" Fee asked.

"No," Justine said tersely, putting cups and saucers on the old green kitchen table.

"Use a plate for the biscuits, Justine, don't put them out in their barrel," said Meggie automatically, "and for pity's sake don't dump the whole milk can on the table, put some in a proper afternoon tea jug."

"Yes, Mum, sorry, Mum," Justine responded, equally mechanically. "Can't see the point of frills in the kitchen. All I've got to do is put whatever isn't eaten back where it came from, and wash up a couple of extra dishes."

"Just do as you're told; it's so much nicer."

"Getting back to the subject," Fee pursued, "I don't think there's anything to discuss. It's my opinion that Justine ought to be allowed to try, and will probably do very well."

"I wish I could be so sure," said Meggie glumly.

"Have you been on about fame and glory, Justine?" her grandmother demanded.

"They enter the picture," said Justine, putting the old brown kitchen teapot on the table defiantly and sitting down in a hurry. "Now don't complain, Mum; I'm not making tea in a silver pot for the kitchen and that's final."

"The teapot is perfectly appropriate." Meggie smiled.

"Oh, that's good! There's nothing like a nice cup of tea," sighed Fee, sipping. "Justine, why do you persist in putting things to your mother so badly? You know it isn't a question of fame and fortune. It's a question of self, isn't it?"

"Self, Nanna?"

"Of course. Self. Acting is what you feel you were meant to do, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"Then why couldn't you have explained it so to your mother? Why upset her with a lot of flippant nonsense?"

Justine shrugged, drank her tea down and pushed the empty cup toward her mother for more. "Dunno," she said.

"I-dont-know," Fee corrected. "You'll articulate properly on the stage, I trust. But self is why you want to be an actress, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," answered Justine reluctantly.

"Oh, that stubborn, pigheaded Cleary pride! It will be your downfall, too, Justine, unless you learn to rule it. That stupid fear of being laughed at, or held up to some sort of ridicule. Though why you think your mother would be so cruel I don't know." She tapped Justine on the back of her hand. "Give a little, Justine; cooperate."

But Justine shook her head and said, "I can't."

Fee sighed. "Well, for what earthly good it will do you, child, you have my blessing on your enterprise."

"Ta, Nanna, I appreciate it."

"Then kindly show your appreciation in a concrete fashion by finding your uncle Frank and telling him there's tea in the kitchen, please."

Justine went off, and Meggie stared at Fee.

"Mum, you're amazing, you really are."

Fee smiled. "Well, you have to admit I never tried to tell any of my children what to do."

"No, you never did," said Meggie tenderly. "We did appreciate it, too."

The first thing Justine did when she arrived back in Sydney was begin to have her freckles removed. Not a quick process, unfortunately; she had so many it would take about twelve months, and then she would have to stay out of the sun for the rest of her life, or they would come back. The second thing she did was to find herself an apartment, no mean feat in Sydney at that time, when people built, private homes and regarded living en masse in buildings as anathema. But eventually she found a two-room flat in Neutral Bay, in one of the huge old waterside Victorian mansions which had fallen on hard times and been made over into dingy semi-apartments. The rent was five pounds ten shillings a week, outrageous considering that the bathroom and kitchen were communal, shared by all the tenants. However, Justine was quite satisfied. Though she had been well trained domestically, she had few homemaker instincts.

Living in Bothwell Gardens was more fascinating than her acting apprenticeship at the Culloden, where life seemed to consist in skulking behind scenery and watching other people rehearse, getting an occasional walk-on, memorizing masses of Shakespeare, Shaw and Sheridan.

Including Justine's, Bothwell Gardens had six flats, plus Mrs. Devine the landlady. Mrs. Devine was a sixty-five-year-old Londoner with a doleful sniff, protruding eyes and a great contempt for Australia and Australians, though she wasn't above robbing them. Her chief concern in life seemed to be how much gas and electricty cost, and her chief weakness was Justine's next-door neighbor, a young Englishman who exploited his nationality cheerfully.

"I don't mind giving the old duck an occasional tickle while we reminisce," he told Justine. "Keeps her off my back, you know. You girls aren't allowed to run electric radiators even in winter, but I was given one and I'm allowed to run it all summer as well if I feel like it."

"Pig," said Justine dispassionately.

His name was Peter Wilkins, and he was a traveling salesman. "Come in and I'll make you a nice cuppa sometime," he called after her, rather taken with those pale, intriguing eyes.

Justine did, careful not to choose a time when Mrs. Devine was lurking jealously about, and got quite used to fighting Peter off. The years of riding and working on Drogheda had endowed her with considerable strength, and she was untroubled by shibboleths like hitting below the belt.

"God damn you, Justine!" gasped Peter, wiping the tears of pain from his eyes. "Give in, girl! You've got to lose it sometime, you know! This isn't Victorian England, you aren't expected to save it for marriage."

"I have no intention of saving it for marriage," she answered, adjusting her dress. "I'm just not sure who's going to get the honor, that's all."

"You're nothing to write home about!" he snapped nastily; she had really hurt.

"No, that I'm not. Sticks and stones, Pete. You can't hurt me with words. And there are plenty of men who will shag anything if it's a virgin."

"Plenty of women, too! Watch the front flat."

"Oh, I do, I do," said Justine.

The two girls in the front flat were lesbians, and had hailed Justine's advent gleefully until they realized she not only wasn't interested, she wasn't even intrigued. At first she wasn't quite sure what they were hinting at, but after they spelled it out baldly she shrugged her shoulders, unimpressed. Thus after a period of adjustment she became their sounding board, their neutral confidante, their port in all storms; she bailed Billie out of jail, took Bobbie to the Mater hospital to have her stomach pumped out after a particularly bad quarrel with Billie, refused to take sides with either of them when Pat, Al, Georgie and Ronnie hove in turns on the horizon. It did seem a very insecure kind of emotional life, she thought. Men were bad enough, but at least they had the spice of intrinsic difference.

So between the Culloden and Bothwell Gardens and girls she had known from Kincoppal days, Justine had quite a lot of friends, and was a good friend herself. She never told them all her troubles as they did her; she had Dane for that, though what few troubles she admitted to having didn't appear to prey upon her. The thing which fascinated her friends the most about her was her extraordinary self-discipline; as if she had trained herself from infancy not to let circumstances affect her well-being.

Of chief interest to everyone called a friend was how, when and with whom Justine would finally decide to become a fulfilled woman, but she took her time.

Arthur Lestrange was Albert Jones's most durable juvenile lead, though he had wistfully waved goodbye to his fortieth birthday the year before Justine arrived at the Culloden. He had a good body, was a steady, reliable actor and his clean-cut, manly face with its surround of yellow curls was always sure to evoke audience applause. For the first year he didn't notice Justine, who was very quiet and did exactly as she was told. But at the end of the year her freckle treatments were finished, and she began to stand out against the scenery instead of blending into it.

Minus the freckles and plus makeup to darken her brows and lashes, she was a good-looking girl in an elfin, understated way. She had none of Luke O'Neill's arresting beauty, or her mother's exquisiteness. Her figure was passable though not spectacular, a trifle on the thin side. Only the vivid red hair ever stood out. But on a stage she was quite different; she could make people think she was as beautiful as Helen of Troy or as ugly as a witch.

Arthur first noticed her during a teaching period, when she was required to recite a passage from Conrad's Lord Jim using various accents. She was extraordinary, really; he could feel the excitement in Albert Jones, and finally understood why Al devoted so much time to her. A born mimic, but far more than that; she gave character to every word she said. And there was the voice, a wonderful natural endowment for any actress, deep, husky, penetrating.

So when he saw her with a cup of tea in her hand, sitting with a book open on her knees, he came to sit beside her.

"What are you reading?"

She looked up, smiled. "Proust."

"Don't you find him a little dull?"

"Proust dull? Not unless one doesn't care for gossip, surely. That's what he is, you know. A terrible old gossip."

He had an uncomfortable conviction that she was intellectually patronizing him, but he forgave her. No more than extreme youth.

"I heard you doing the Conrad. Splendid."

"Thank you."

"Perhaps we could have coffee together sometime and discuss your plans"

"If you like," she said, returning to Proust.

He was glad he had stipulated coffee, rather than dinner; his wife kept him on short commons, and dinner demanded a degree of gratitude he couldn't be sure Justine was ready to manifest. However, he followed his casual invitation up, and bore her off to a dark little place in lower Elizabeth Street, where he was reasonably sure his wife wouldn't think of looking for him.

In self-defense Justine had learned to smoke, tired of always appearing goody-goody in refusing offered cigarettes. After they were seated she took her own cigarettes out of her bag, a new pack, and peeled the top cellophane from the flip-top box carefully, making sure the larger piece of cellophane still sheathed the bulk of the packet. Arthur watched her deliberateness, amused and interested.

"Why on earth go to so much trouble? Just rip it all off, Justine."

"How untidy!"

He picked up the box and stroked its intact shroud reflectively. "Now, if I was a disciple of the eminent Sigmund Freud..."

"If you were Freud, what?" She glanced up, saw the waitress standing beside her. "Cappuccino, please."

It annoyed him that she gave her own order, but he let it pass, more intent on pursuing the thought in his mind. "Vienna, please. Now, getting back to what I was saying about Freud. I wonder what he'd think of this? He might say..."

She took the packet off him, opened it, removed a cigarette and lit it herself without giving him time to find his matches. "Well?"

"He'd think you liked to keep membranous substances intact, wouldn't he?"

Her laughter gurgled through the smoky air, caused several male heads to turn curiously. "Would he now? Is that a roundabout way of asking me if I'm still a virgin, Arthur?"

He clicked his tonque, exasperated. "Justine! I can see that among other things I'll have to teach you the fine art of prevarication."

"Among what other things, Arthur?" She leaned her elbows on the table, eyes gleaming in the dimness.

"Well, what do you need to learn?"

"I'm pretty well educated, actually."

"In everything?"

"Heavens, you do know how to emphasize words, don't you? Very good, I must remember how you said that."

"There are things which can only be learned from firsthand experience," he said softly, reaching out a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear.

"Really? I've always found observation adequate."

"Ah, but what about when it comes to love?" He put a delicate deepness into the word. "How can you play Juliet without knowing what love is?"