It was gratifying to see that Harold was uneasy till the note was
sent off and the carriage dismissed. "You are not going?" he said, as
persuasively as if he were speaking to Dora, and I strove to make a
wise and prudent answer, about remaining for the next few days, and
settling the rest when he had made his plans.
Then I proposed to take Dora up to bed, but though manifestly very
weary, the child refused, and when her brother tried to order her,
she ran between Harold's knees, and there tossed her head and glared
at me. He lifted her on his lap, and she drew his arm round her in
defence. Eustace said he spoilt her, but he still held her, and, as
she dropped asleep against his breast, Eustace related, almost in a
tone of complaint, that she had cared for no one else ever since the
time she had been lost in the Bush, and Harold had found her, after
three days, in the last stage of exhaustion, since which time she had
had neither eyes, ears, nor allegiance for any other creature, but
that she must be taught something, and made into a lady.
Harold gazed down on her with his strange, soft, melancholy smile,
somehow seeming to vex Eustace, who accused him of not caring how
rough and uncultivated she was, nor himself either.
"We leave the polish to you," said Harold.
"Why, yes," said Eustace, simpering, "my uncle Smith gave me the
first advantages in Sydney, and everyone knew my father was 'a
gentleman.
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