Kilda, three miles off. A cool
breeze went; the hoofs of the horses beat a rataplan on the hard
surface; the great road, broad enough to make three of, was alive with
smart gigs and trotters.
St. Kilda was a group of white houses facing the Bay. Most were o'
weatherboard with brick chimneys; but there were also a few of a more
solid construction. Mahony's goal was one of these: a low, stone villa
surrounded by verandahs, in the midst of tasteful grounds. The drive up
to the door led through a shrubbery, artfully contrived of the native
ti-tree; behind the house stretched kitchen and fruit-gardens. Many rare
plants grew in the beds. There was a hedge of geraniums close on fifteen
feet high.
His knock was answered by a groom, who made a saucy face: Mr. Turnham
and his lady were attending the Governor's ball this evening and did not
receive. Mahony insisted on the delivery of his visiting-card. And since
the servant still blocked the entrance he added: "Inform your master, my
man, that I am the bearer of a message from his sister, Miss Mary
Turnham."
The man shut him out, left him standing on the verandah. After a lengthy
absence, he returned, and with a "Well, come along in then!" opened the
door of a parlour. This was a large room, well furnished in horsehair
and rep. Wax-lights stood on the mantelpiece before a gilt-framed
pierglass; coloured prints hung on the walls.
While Mahony was admiring the genteel comfort to which he had long been
a stranger, John Turnham entered the room.
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