the week.”
“Why?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Madge, petulantly; “he is so restless, and never seems to settle down to anything. He says for the rest of his life he is going to do nothing; but wander all over the world.”
There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald’s mind a line from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. Frettlby—“A fugitive and a vagabond thou shalt be in the earth.”
“Everyone gets these restless fits sooner or later,” he said, idly. “In fact,” with an uneasy laugh, “I believe I’m in one myself.”
“That puts me in mind of what I heard Dr. Chinston say yesterday,” she said. “This is the age of unrest, as electricity and steam have turned us all into Bohemians.”
“Ah! Bohemia is a pleasant place,” said Brian, absently, unconsciously quoting Thackeray, “but we all lose our way to it late in life.”
“At that rate we won’t lose our way to it for some time,” she said laughing, as they stepped into the drawing-room, so cool and shady, after the heat and glare outside.
As they entered Mr. Frettlby rose from a chair near the window. He appeared to have been reading, for he held a book in his hand.
“What! Fitzgerald,” he exclaimed, in a hearty tone, as he held out his hand; “I am glad to see you.”
“I let you know I am living, don’t I?” replied Brian, his face flushing as he reluctantly took the proffered hand. “But the fact is I have come to say good-bye for a few days.”
“Ah! going back to town, I suppose,” said Mr. Frettlby, lying back in his chair, and playing with his watch chain. “I don’t know that you are wise, exchanging the clear air of the country for the dusty atmosphere of Melbourne.”
“Yet Madge tells me you are going back,” said Brian, idly toying with a vase of flowers on the table.
“Depends upon circumstances,” replied the other carelessly. “I may and I may not. You go on business, I presume?”
“Well, the fact is Calton—” Here Brian stopped suddenly, and bit his lip with vexation, for he had not intended to mention the lawyer’s name.
“Yes?” said Mr. Frettlby, interrogatively, sitting up quickly, and looking keenly at Brian.
“Wants to see me on business,” he finished, awkwardly.
“Connected with the sale of your station, I suppose,” said Frettlby, still keeping his eyes on the young man’s face.
“Can’t have a better man. Calton’s an excellent man of business.”
“A little too excellent,” replied Fitzgerald, ruefully, “he’s a man who can’t leave well alone.”
“A PROPOS of what?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Fitzgerald, hastily, and just then his eyes met those of Frettlby. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, but in that short space of time a single name flashed through their brains—the name of Rosanna Moore. Mr. Frettlby was the first to lower his eyes, and break the spell.
“Ah, well,” he said, lightly, as he rose from his chair and held out his hand, “if you are two weeks in town, call at St. Kilda, and it’s more than likely you will find us there.”
Brian shook hands in silence, and watched him pick up his hat, and move on to the verandah, and then out into the hot sunshine.
“He knows,” he muttered involuntarily.
“Knows what, sir?” said Madge, who came silently behind him, and slipped her arm through his. “That you are hungry, and want something to eat before you leave us?”
“I don’t feel hungry,” said Brian, as they walked towards the door.
“Nonsense,” answered Madge, merrily, who, like Eve, was on hospitable thoughts intent. “I’m not going to have you appear in Melbourne a pale, fond lover, as though I were treating you badly. Come, sir—no,” she continued, putting up her hand as he tried to kiss her, “business first, pleasure afterwards,” and they went into the dining-room laughing.
Mark Frettlby wandered down to the lawn-tennis ground, thinking of the look he had seen in Brian’s eyes. He shivered for a moment in the hot sunshine, as though it had grown suddenly chill.
“Someone stepping across my grave,” he murmured to himself, with a cynical smile. “Bah! how superstitious I am, and yet—he knows, he knows!”
“Come on, sir,” cried Felix, who had just caught sight of him, “a racket awaits you.”
Frettlby awoke with a start, and found himself near the lawn-tennis ground, and Felix at his elbow, smoking a cigarette.
He roused himself with a great effort, and tapped the young man lightly on the shoulder.
“What?” he said with a forced laugh, “do you really expect me to play lawn tennis on such a day? You are mad.”
“I am hot, you mean,” retorted the imperturbable Rolleston, blowing a wreath of smoke.
“That’s a foregone conclusion,” said Dr. Chinston, who came up at that moment.
“Such a charming novel,” cried Julia, who had just caught the last remark.
“What is?” asked Peterson, rather puzzled.
“Howell’s book, ‘A Foregone Conclusion,’” said Julia, also looking puzzled. “Weren’t you talking about it?”
“I’m afraid this talk is getting slightly incoherent,” said Felix, with a sigh. “We all seem madder than usual to-day.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Chinston, indignantly, “I’m as sane as any man in the world.”
“Exactly,” retorted the other coolly, “that’s what I say, and you, being a doctor, ought to know that every man and woman in the world is more or less mad.”
“Where are your facts?” asked Chinston, smiling.
“My facts are all visible ones,” said Felix, gravely pointing to the company. “They’re all crooked on some point or another.”
There was a chorus of indignant denial at this, and then every one burst out laughing at the extraordinary way in which Mr. Rolleston was arguing.
“If you go on like that in the House,” said Frettlby, amused, “you will, at all events, have an entertaining Parliament.”
“Ah! they’ll never have an entertaining Parliament till they admit ladies,” observed Peterson, with a quizzical glance at Julia.
“It will be a Parliament of love then,” retorted the doctor, dryly, “and not mediaeval either.”
Frettlby
