Annabel Effingham thought that Bertram St. Maur was perhaps the prince and seigneur of their by no means undistinguished circle of acquaintances. A tall, handsome man, with a natural air of command, he was by Blanche and Selden, immediately after they had set eyes on him, declared to be the image of a Norman King in their History of England, and invested accordingly with grand and mysterious attributes. A well-known explorer, in the first days of his residence in Australia he had preferred the hazards of discovery to the slower gains of ordinary station life. He was therefore looked upon as the natural chief and leader in his own border district, a position which, with head and hand, he was well qualified to support.
The homeward journey was quickly performed, a natural impatience causing the whole party to linger as little as possible on the road. Once more they reached the ascent above their home, from which they could look down upon the green slopes, the tranquil lake, the purple hills, of the well-known landscape. The afternoon had kept fine; the change from the busy town, the late scene of their dissipation, was not unpleasing.
‘I am pleased to think that you young people have enjoyed yourselves,’ said Mrs. Effingham, ‘and so, I am sure, has papa. It has been a change for him; but, oh, if you knew how delighted I am to see home again!’
‘So am I; so are we all,’ said Annabel. ‘I for one will never say a word against pleasure, for I have enjoyed myself tremendously. But “enough is as good as a feast.” We have had a grand holiday, and like good children we shall go back cheerfully to our lessons—that is, to our housekeeping, and dear old Jeanie.’
‘Your mother is right in thinking that I enjoyed myself,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I found most pleasant acquaintances, and had much interesting talk about affairs generally. It does a man good, when he is no longer young, to meet men of the same age and to exchange ideas. But I must say that the pleasure was of an intense and compressed description; it ought to last you young people for a year.’
‘_Half a year_,’ said Annabel, ‘I really think it might. _We_ met improving acquaintances too,—though I am popularly supposed not to care about sensible conversation,—Miss Fane, for instance. We shared a room, and I thought her a delightful, original, clever creature, and so good too. Can’t we have her over here, mamma? She lives at a place called Black Mountain, ever so far away, and can hardly ever leave home, because she has little brothers to teach, and all the housekeeping to do. I am sorry she is so far off.’