“Go along yourself with your 'come' and 'come' and 'come.' Say less and do more.”
With that final outburst she swept down the steps and along the path, leaving Philip three paces behind, and the Ballawhaine with a terrified look under the stuffed cormorant in the fanlight above the open door.
The fiery mood lasted her half way home, and then broke down in a torrent of tears.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” she cried. “I've been too hasty. After all, he is your only relative. What shall I do now? Oh, what shall I do now?”
Philip was walking steadily half a step behind, and he had never once spoken since they left Ballawhaine.
“Pack my bag to-night, Auntie,” said he with the voice of a man; “I shall start for Douglas by the coach to-morrow morning.”
He sought out the best known of the Manx advocates, a college friend of his father's, and said to him, “I've sixty pounds a year, sir, from my mother's father, and my aunt has enough of her own to live on. Can I afford to pay your premium?”
The lawyer looked at him attentively for a moment, and answered, “No, you can't,” and Philip's face began to fall.
“But I'll take you the five years for nothing, Mr. Christian,” the wise man added, “and if you suit me, I'll give you wages after two.”