“Yes you are, Luke. There, come often, and let poor Margaret say what she likes. We shall have done our duty by her, so that will be enough for us.”
“Hang duty! I’m getting sick of duty. No matter what one does, or how one tries to live in peace and be left alone, there is always duty flying in one’s face.”
“Confession of failure, Luke,” said his brother, taking his arm. “You had given up ordinary social life, invested your property, sent your plate to your banker’s, and settled down to the life of the humblest cottager, to, as you say, escape the troubles of every-day life.”
“Yes, and I’ve escaped ’em—roguish tradespeople, household anxieties, worries out of number.”
“In other words,” said Vine, smiling, “done everything you could to avoid doing your duty, and for result you have found that trouble comes to your cottage in some form or another as frequently as it does to my big house.”
Uncle Luke stopped short, and gave his stick a thump on the path.
“I have done, Luke,” said Vine quietly. “Come along; Louise will think we are very long.”
“Louise will be very glad to have had an hour or two to herself without you pottering about her. Hah! what idiots we men are, fancying that the women are looking out for us from our point of view when they are looking out from theirs for fear of being surprised, and—”
“Here we are, Luke. Come in, my clear boy.”
Uncle Luke grunted.