'Mr. Stirling or Mr. Hastings then—good and true friends both. Which of them can it be?'
'Well, it was Charlie Stirling. His father was an old friend of mine, and a better fellow than Charlie doesn't live.'
'How strange! how wonderful!' said Estelle, almost musingly. 'To think that he should be down here before Lance goes away. Do you think he will come to see—to see—the ceremony?' And here a blush faintly overspread her countenance.
'He wasn't sure. Just off the coach, and covered with mud, but would rush off to his hotel and do his best. Then he told me a piece of news about himself.'
'What was that?'
'Why, he had got a year's leave of absence, and as he had made a lucky hit in the Coming Event,—a claim that's nearly as good as Number Six, he says,—he's going to treat himself to a run home.'
'Going to England! Mr. Stirling going home! You don't say so? Who would have thought it?'
'Well, he is just the man to appreciate it thoroughly. It will improve him, as it does every Australian with the requisite amount of brains. Though I really don't see how Charlie Stirling could be much improved—except by a good wife,' he added thoughtfully.
'I am sure I hope he will find one,' Estelle replied; 'no one is more worthy of that or any other happiness. I wonder if he will come, and whether he will think Lance much altered?'
Mr. Vernon made no reply to this latter remark. Indeed he was strongly inclined to say, 'Confound Lance!'—or even to use a stronger expression. But he consoled himself with the conviction that it was impossible to advise women for their good—even the best of them. And thus reflecting he preceded the little party into the church.