“Oh, yes, I shall go soon,” he replied; “I’m tired of this narrow country. Ah, Portlock, you should come with me.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Mrs Portlock, excitedly. “My husband could not think of such a thing.”
The Churchwarden, who was puffing away at his pipe when this was said, gave Frank Mallow a peculiar look, to which that gentleman nodded and stroked his dark beard.
“Well, I don’t know, mother,” he said; “farming’s getting very bad here, and those who emigrate seem to do very well.”
“Oh, no, Joseph; I don’t believe they do,” cried Mrs Portlock, plaiting away at her apron, so as to produce the effect since become fashionable under the name of kilting.
“Why, look at young Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden; “he’s emigrated to London, and they say getting on wonderful.”
“Home’s quite good enough for me, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, “and I wouldn’t go on any consideration.”
Frank Mallow took up the ball here, but the Churchwarden saw that Sage had turned pale and was bending over her work, so he stopped, and Frank went on painting the pictures of Australian life in the most highly-coloured style.
This visit became an extremely painful one to Sage, for, to Cyril’s great annoyance, Frank came more and more, bantering his brother on his ill-humour, taking not the slightest notice of Mrs Berry, who had turned very cold and reserved to him now, and evidently trying to pique her by his attentions to Sage.
The latter began to look upon him with horror, and dreaded Cyril’s absences, which were very frequent, there always being something to shoot over at Gatley, or a trip to make somewhere; and at last it became almost a matter of course, as soon as Cyril had gone, for Frank to come sauntering in to have a chat with the Churchwarden upon sheep.