“The girls are all very well, although too horsey for me. I cannot tolerate young women bounding about all over the country after kangaroos, in company with a lot of rough men in shirts and moleskins, attending race meetings, and calling the Roman Catholic clergyman 'Father Jim' to his face. It's simply horrible.”
“Well! what about Mrs Brooke and Ethel Brooke?” asked Gerrard; “surely they are ladies in every sense of the word?”
“I admit that they are better than the Gordons, but Ethel Brooke is a notorious jilt, and her mother has absolutely no control of her; then Mr Brooke himself is more like one of his own stockmen in appearance than a gentleman by birth and education.”
Gerrard looked up at the ceiling—then gave up any further argument in despair. “I'll tell you what you want, Lizzie,” he said, cheerfully, “you want about six months in Melbourne or Sydney.”
“I detest Melbourne; it is hot, dusty, dirty, noisy, and vulgar.”
“Then Sydney?”
“Of course, I like Sydney; but Edward never will stay there more than a week—he is always dying to be back among his cattle and horses.”
“I'll try my hand with him, and see what I can do with the man,” then he added,
“Now, let us get on with breakfast. Then we'll see this cubby house, and I'll diagnose the bear's complaint.”
As soon as breakfast was over, Mrs Westonley left the room to put on her hat, and Gerrard stretched himself out in a squatter's chair on the verandah to smoke his pipe. Presently he heard his sister calling, “Jim, where are you? I want you.”