'He thinks a rare lot of himself!' she whispered.
'He's somebody, he is!' said Emmie with contempt.
'He thinks there's too much difference between masters and men, over
here,' said Matilda.
'Is it any different in Canada?' asked Emmie.
'Oh, yes--democratic,' replied Matilda, 'He thinks they're all on a level
over there.'
'Ay, well he's over here now,' said Emmie dryly, 'so he can keep his
place.'
As they talked they saw the young man sauntering down the garden, looking
casually at the flowers. He had his hands in his pockets, and his
soldier's cap neatly on his head. He looked quite at his ease, as if in
possession. The two women, fluttered, watched him through the window.
'We know what he's come for,' said Emmie, churlishly. Matilda looked a
long time at the neat khaki figure. It had something of the charity-boy
about it still; but now it was a man's figure, laconic, charged with
plebeian energy. She thought of the derisive passion in his voice as he
had declaimed against the propertied classes, to her father.
'You don't know, Emmie. Perhaps he's not come for that,' she rebuked her
sister. They were both thinking of the money.
They were still watching the young soldier. He stood away at the bottom
of the garden, with his back to them, his hands in his pockets, looking
into the water of the willow pond. Matilda's dark-blue eyes had a
strange, full look in them, the lids, with the faint blue veins showing,
dropped rather low.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158