Mr. Grandison’s laugh was not pleasant to hear. His friend followed him into the drawing-room in silence. Here sat the three ladies, who were apparently not in bad spirits. Mrs. Grandison had chased from her brow the marks of care which were so apparent at an earlier period of the day, and was joining, apparently without effort, in the vivacious discourse of the two young ladies. Miss Josie had contrived to arise and apparel herself after the fashion of the period, and though showing some of the pallor produced by a round of gaiety in a semi-tropical climate, was on the whole sufficiently attractive.
“So this is Laura,” said Mr. Grandison, as he advanced and warmly greeted the young lady in question. “Why, what a woman you’ve grown, and a handsome one, too, or I mistake much. Why, Josie, we must send you up to the banks of the Warra Warra, or wherever Windāhgil is. Near Mooramah, isn’t it, Stamford? ’Pon my soul! I forget where my own stations are sometimes.”
“You won’t catch me going into the bush, father!” said Miss Josie, in a rather sharp tone of voice. “That is, not farther than North Shore. It certainly agrees with some people, and Laura here might play the part of Patience without dressing. But Sydney is my home, and I don’t mean to stir from it.”
“It’s the worst day’s work I ever did in my life when I brought you all to live here,” said her father. “I wish to heaven we had continued to live at the old bush cottage you were born in, my lady.”
“I don’t see what difference that would have made, Robert,” said his wife.
“But I do,” said the master of the house. “You and your children would never have learned the habits of fashionable folly and reckless extravagance in which your lives are spent. We might have been satisfied with a more natural existence—aye, and, a happier life.”
“If you only come home early to say disagreeable things, my dear Robert, I must say that I like the old way best,” said Mrs. Grandison with dignity.
“I would say a great many more things of the same sort,” replied he, “if I could persuade myself that they would do any good. But it is too late now. We have sown the wind and must reap the whirlwind.”
This form of discussion tended to render things generally rather uncomfortable. It would have been difficult to direct the conversation into a more conventional channel had not Mr. Grandison abruptly left the room.
“I can’t think what has put Robert out so this afternoon,” said his wife, “of course he keeps worrying himself about that dreadful affair of Carlo’s—wicked boy! He told you about that, Mr. Stamford, I know. I’ve cried my eyes out, and I shall never be the same woman again, I know. But what is the use of making your life one long misery for the sake of a selfish, disobedient son? He never considered us, I firmly believe, since he was a boy at school. Then why, as Josie says, should we consider him? I am not going to grieve over him any longer. He has chosen his path.”