“Oh, we’re not going to stay,” cried Mrs Wilton. “Come, Kate, my child, and let these dreadful men talk.”
“By no means,” said Garstang; “sit still, pray. We shall have plenty of time for anything more we have to say over a cigar to-night, for I’ve come down to throw myself upon your hospitality for a day or two.”
“Of course, of course,” said Wilton, quickly; “Maria has a room ready for you.”
“Yes, your old room, John Garstang; and it’s beautifully aired, and just as you like it.”
“Thank you, Maria. You aunt always spoils me, Kate, when I come down here. I look upon the place as quite an oasis in the desert of drudgery and business; and at last I have to drag myself away, or I should become a confirmed sybarite.”
“Well, why don’t you?” said Claud. “Only wish I had your chance.”
“My dear Claud, you speak with the voice of one-and-twenty. When you are double your age you will find, as I do, that money and position and life’s pleasures soon pall, and that the real enjoyment of existence is really in work.”
“Walker!” said Claud, contemptuously.
Garstang laughed merrily, and while Wilton and his wife frowned and shook their heads at their son, he turned to Kate.
“It is of no use to preach to young people,” he said, “but what I say is the truth. Not that I object to a bit of pleasure, Claud, boy. I’m looking forward to a few hours with you, my lad—jolly ones, as you call them, and as I used. How about the pheasants?”