“Well,” said Roberta helplessly, “What would you like?”
“I’m sick at the sight of blood so I couldn’t be a doctor. I lose my temper when I argue, so I couldn’t be a lawyer, and I hate the poor, so I couldn’t be a parson.”
“Wasn’t there some idea of your managing Deepacres?”
“A sheep farmer?”
“Well — a run-holder. Deepacres is a biggish run, isn’t it?”
“Too big for the Lampreys. Poor Daddy! When we first got here he became so excessively New Zealand. I believe he used sheep-dip on his hair and shall I ever forget him with the dogs! He bought four — I think they cost twenty pounds each. He used to sit on his horse and whistle so unsuccessfully that even the horse couldn’t have heard him and the dogs all lay down and went to sleep and the sheep stood in serried ranks and gazed at him in mild surprise. Then he tried swearing and screaming but he lost his voice in less than no time. We should never have come out here.”
“I can’t understand why you did.”
“In a vague sort of way I fancy we were shooting the moon. I was at Eton and really didn’t know anything about it, until they whizzed me away to the ship.”
“I suppose you’ll all go back to England,” said Roberta unhappily.
“When Uncle Gabriel dies. Unless, of course, Aunt G has any young.”