“Poor Marguerite!”
“There you go; encouraging the silly French notions. Why can’t you call her Margaret, like a British Christian?”
“Let her finish her span in peace, brother,” said George Vine, whose visit to his old friend seemed to have brightened him, and made voice and step elastic. “We are crochety and strange too, I with my mollusc hobby, and you with your fishing.”
“If you want to quarrel, I’m not coming up.”
“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 have 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 everyday life.”
“Yes, and I’ve escaped ’em—roguish trades-people, 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.