“She said I’d better give up hope in England, and go to some other country. Texas was proposed.”
The girl kept silence. If Lacour gauged her rightly she was reflecting upon this advice as coming from Mrs. Clarendon. Her brows drew together, and there was the phantom of a bitter smile at her lips.
“Mrs. Clarendon thinks you would be better off in Texas?” she asked, with indifference not so skilfully assumed but that this shrewd young man could see through it.
“Yes; she seems to think I should be better off anywhere than in England. I dare say she’s right, you know. My friends are about getting tired of me; it’s time I made myself scarce.”
“And what would you do in Texas?”
“Oh, pretty much anything. The kind of work you see farm labourers doing here—rail-splitting, sheep-washing and driving, and so on.”
“You feel a call to such occupations?”
“Well, I have Mrs. Clarendon’s advice.”
“Mrs. Clarendon’s advice!” she repeated. “Is Mrs. Clarendon’s advice decisive with you?”
“I believe she has a friendly interest in me, and I shouldn’t wonder if she’s right. Other people have advised the same thing. They’ve given me up, you see, one and all.”