A Few Right Thinking Men Read Free Page B

to reside in bloody Victoria to be able to paint!”
    Rowland laughed. Much to the ire of the Sydney art community, Victorians had dominated the prize since its inception, but he was reasonably sure it was not a conspiracy of any sort.
    The meal continued in effortless company. Rowland’s uncle carried the conversation, but that was not unusual. Intermittently, his acquaintances would stop by to speak with him. Rowland observed that a certain indulgence was extended to age under the auspices of eccentricity. It was obvious, however, that he would not be afforded the same tolerance. Most responded warily to any introduction. Although Wilfred Sinclair was a gentleman of reputation, his youngest brother was known for avoiding the company of men of standing. The esteemed members of the Masonic Club declined any extended conversation with the younger Rowland. It seemed that Woodlands House and its current residents had not escaped the notice of Sydney society, and, regardless of what his uncle thought, Rowland was not quite respectable.
    After a dignified passage of time, lunch was complete. Rowland glanced at his watch as his host smoked and recounted some tales of his most recent visit to London. It was nearly three o’clock. He could walk to the Domain from the club in about ten minutes. He finished the last of his wine in a single gulp.
    â€œI must be off,” he said, standing before his uncle could order yet another round of port.
    â€œI’m glad to hear it, son. A young man like you should have better things to do than dine with old relatives. Go now. Do something interesting!”
    â€œWe shall do this again, soon.” Rowland shook his uncle’s hand.
    â€œOf course, of course…”
    Rowland retrieved his coat and hat. The Masonic Club was in the heart of the city, only a short walk from the parklands of the Domain. The day was dull and although it was December, the breeze was brisk.
    There were many men walking in the same direction. Some, like Rowland, walked with a sense of destination. Others seemed bent with unseen burdens, tired men who were walking that way because they had nowhere else to go. Honest men, criminals, and those who resorted to theft and menace because they saw no other option. Later, once darkness had emptied the Domain, they would find refuge in the rock shelters of Mrs. Macquarie’s Point.
    Occasionally, he was stopped by beggars and men bearing pamphlets decrying some ill or promoting some cause. He always carried coins for the former and politely declined the latter.
    Rowland placed a hand on his hat as he ducked through the congestion of motorcars and horse vans near the grand iron gates at the Domain’s entrance. He made his way toward Speakers’ Corner, where the Communists met on Sunday afternoons to exercise their right to free speech in the open air, and to rally support for their cause. When he reached the outer Domain, a large crowd was gathering, and he could already hear the rabble of fiery speeches. Eventually, he spotted Edna talking earnestly with a man whose arm was bandaged in a sling about his neck. Milton and Clyde stood beside them.
    â€œEd!” Rowland hailed them all with her name. Edna waved.
    â€œWhat on earth are you wearing?” Milton asked as soon as Rowland was in earshot.
    â€œHe’s been lunching with the ruling classes,” Edna explained.
    Rowland laughed. There was really no point denying it. The dress regulations of the Masonic Club, and the expectations of its members, were strict and particular. Still, it was not as if he was wearing tails. In fact, he was dressed pretty much as he always was, though he had taken special care to find a jacket and a shirt that were not streaked with paint.
    â€œJust trying to keep pace with Milt,” he replied.
    Milton’s attire was not expensive, but it was distinctive, much like Milton himself. He had a preference for unusual colours and extravagant cravats.