“Oh, auntie, we got on splendidly!  He’s not a bit of trouble.  We’re as chummy as though we had been reared together,” I exclaimed.

“Did you get him to talk?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you really?” in surprise.

When I came to review the matter I was forced to confess that I had done all the talking, and young Beecham the listening; moreover I described him as the quietest man I had ever seen or heard of.

The judge did not come home with uncle Jay-Jay as expected so it was not necessary for me to shelter Harold Beecham under my wing.  Grannie greeted him cordially as “Harold, my boy”, he was a great favourite with her.  She and uncle Julius monopolized him for the evening.  There was great talk of trucking sheep, the bad outlook as regarded the season, the state of the grass in the triangle, the Leigh Spring, the Bimbalong, and several other paddocks, and of the condition of the London wool market.  It did not interest me, so I dived into a book, only occasionally emerging therefrom to smile at Mr Beecham.

He had come to Caddagat for a pair of bullocks which had been fattening in grannie’s home paddock.  Uncle gave him a start with them next morning.  When they came out on the road I was standing in a bed of violets in a tangled corner of the garden, where roses climbed to kiss the lilacs, and spiraea stooped to rest upon the wallflowers, and where two tall kurrajongs stood like sentries over all.  Harold Beecham dismounted, and, leaning over the fence, lingered with me, leaving the bullocks to uncle Jay-Jay.  Uncle raved vigorously.  Women, he asserted, were the bane of society and the ruination Of all men; but he had always considered Harold as too sensible to neglect his business to stand grinning at a pesky youngster in short skirts and a pigtail.  Which was the greatest idiot of the two he didn’t know.

His grumbling did not affect Harold in the least.

“Complimentary to both of us,” he remarked as he leisurely threw himself across his great horse, and smiled his pleasant quiet smile, disclosing two rows of magnificent teeth, untainted by contamination with beer or tobacco.  Raising his panama hat with the green fly-veil around it, he cantered off.  I wondered as I watched him if anything ever disturbed his serenity, and desired to try.  He looked too big and quiet to be ruffled by such emotions as rage, worry, jealousy, or even love.  Returning to the house, I put aunt Helen through an exhaustive catechism concerning him.

Question.  Auntie, what age is Harold Beecham?

Answer.  Twenty-five last December.

Q. Did he ever have any brothers or sisters?  A. No.  His birth caused his mother’s death.  Q. How long has his father been dead?

A. Since Harold could crawl.

Q. Who reared him?

A. His aunts.

Q. Does he ever talk any more than that?  A. Often a great deal less.

Q. Is he really very rich?