“Harry,” she said, “we have been away a long while. Don’t you think it is time to go home?”
“No,” he answered; “I haven’t thought so. What suggested the idea?”
It was obvious that he had no suspicion of her motive, and she was not prepared to explain that she wished to place Muriel beyond Prescott’s reach.
“Well,” she said lamely, “aren’t you rather neglecting your duties?”
“No,” Colston replied with a smile; “as they’re to a large extent merely formal ones, I believe they can wait a little longer without much harm being done.”
Mrs. Colston was surprised. She had not expected such an admission from her husband, though she agreed with him. Harry was not, as a rule, susceptible to new impressions, but there was a subtle influence in the simple life on the prairies which altered one’s point of view and led to one’s forming a new estimate of values. She had felt this. Things which had seemed essential in England somehow lost their importance in Canada.
“Besides,” he resumed, “you will remember that I made arrangements to be away a year, if necessary, and perhaps if I make the most of my opportunities in this country, I may have something worth while to say when we go home again.”
This was more in his usual vein; but his wife did not encourage him. Harry was apt to grow tiresome in his improving mood.
“But you don’t think of staying the full year?” she asked in alarm.
“Oh, no; we might wait another week or two, or even a month more. It wouldn’t be the thing to desert Jernyngham; and, as we’re mixed up in it, I feel it would be better to see the matter through.” He smiled at his wife with cumbrous gallantry. “Then, though you always look charming, you’re now unusually fresh and fit; there’s no doubt that the place agrees with you.”