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 diminished by such accessories as hock and salmon sandwiches. Then we gathered a bunch of the lovely unfamiliar flowers and started on our return journey, which was varied by our running along Manly Beach, crowded with Sunday pleasure-seekers even in these early spring days.

Sydney is so split up and scattered over its hills that it takes some time for a stranger to realise its extent. All these Australian towns are so extraordinarily well-to-do; there is never anything like our working-class suburbs. "Where do the poor people live?" we used to ask. The obvious answer being that there are no poor.

For us Sydney will always mean Kirribilli Point, and the old house, whose owner called it by the pretty native name of Wyreepi—"Come and stay"—a name eloquent of the unfailing kindness and hospitality within its portals—an old house shuttered and barred against the depredations of the early lawless convict settlers who had helped to build it. The name evokes a mental picture of its red gables and chocolate-coloured walls, with the gravel paths to match; its hedge of grey, closely clipped salt bush, its sloping lawns and tall trees, its beds of sweet peas and stocks, sweetest of spring flowers, the coral-tree its bare boughs hanging with scarlet flowers; and in front the grass sloping to the