Her father became much less distant towards his only daughter in the days that followed. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. "Stop a minute, my dear," cried Austin. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. " He held out his dry hard hand into which she placed hers. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. He had hired not one but two engineers to record the event, subsidized entirely out of his own meager pocket. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. She approached this field with her usual liveliness of apprehension. Her lips parted, but no words came. McClintock says they can't get in there, or at least they never try it. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all.
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