“That is your affair, John. You need not go on with this business at all, unless you like. I had rather you didn't.”
“What the deuce am I to do, then?”
“I am not as rich as you are, but, with my station and so on, I am worth seven thousand a year. Come back to Australia with me, and let these poor people enjoy their own again. Ah, John, it is the best thing to do, believe me. We can afford to be honest now.”
“A fine scheme!” cried he. “Give up half a million of money, and go back to Australia! You must be mad!”
“Then telegraph.”
“But, my dear—”
“Hush, here's the waiter.”
As he wrote, John Rex felt gloomily that, though he had succeeded in recalling her affection, that affection was as imperious as of yore.