CHAPTER IX.
MOTHER AND SON.
A clever man is not necessarily an infallible prophet; and the clever man who is married may well preserve an intellectual luster in the eyes of his admirer by never prophesying at all. But should he take pleasure in predicting the thing that is openly deprecated at the other side of the hearth, let him see to it that his prediction comes true, for otherwise he has whetted a blade for his own breast, from whose justifiable use only an angel could abstain. There was no angel in the family which had been brought up on Wallandoon Station, New South Wales. When, within the next three days, Ruth received a note from Lady Dromard inviting them all to dinner at a very early date, she did not fail to prod Erskine as he deserved. But her thrust was not malignant; nor did she give vexatious vent to her own triumph, which was considerable.
"You are a very clever man," she merely told him, and with the relish of a wife who can say this from her heart; "but you see, you're wrong for once. Lady Dromard did mean what she said. She wants us all to dine there on Friday evening, when, as it happens, we have no other engagement; and really I don't see how we can refuse."
"You mean that you would like to get out of it if you could?" her husband said.
"You don't need to be sarcastic," remarked Ruth with a slight flush. "Who wants to get out of it?"
"I thought perhaps you did, my dear; to tell you the truth, I rather hoped so."
"You don't want to go!"
"I can't say I jump."
Ruth colored afresh.
"I have no patience with you, Erskine! Nobody is dying to go; but I own I can't see any reason against going, nor any excuse for stopping away; and considering what you yourself said about going to the garden party, dear, I must say I think you're rather inconsistent."