“Intend to accept him!” I echoed.  I haven’t once thought of such a possibility.  I never mean to marry anyone.”

“Don’t you care for Harold?  Just a little?  Think.”

“How could I care for him?”

“For many, many reasons.  He is young, and very kind and gentle.  He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find.  He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him.  But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.”

“But he is so conceited,” I remarked.

“That does not make him any the less lovable.  I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me.  “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—­life has been very easy for him so far, you see.”

“But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.”

“Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.”

“Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully.  “But I’ll surprise him if he thinks he can get me for the asking.”

“Sybylla, never flirt.  To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.”

“I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour.  “Play with a man’s heart!  You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear you talk.  Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any of them.  I am sick of this preach, preach about playing with men’s hearts.  It is an old fable which should have been abolished long ago.  It does not matter how a woman is played with.”

“Sybylla, you talk at random.  The shortcomings of men are no excuse for you to be unwomanly,” said aunt Helen.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The 9th of November 1896

The Prince of Wales’s birthday up the country was celebrated as usual thereaway by the annual horse-races on the Wyambeet course, about fourteen miles from Caddagat.

The holding of these races was an elderly institution, and was followed at night by a servants’ ball given by one of the squatters.  Last year it had been Beecham’s ball, the year before Bossier’s, and this year it was to take place in the woolshed of James Grant of Yabtree.  Our two girls, the gardener, and Joe Slocombe the groom, were to be present, as also were all the other employees about.  Nearly every one in the district—­masters and men—­attended the races.  We were going, Frank Hawden volunteering to stay and mind the house.

We started at nine o’clock.  Grannie and uncle Boss sat in the front scat of the buggy, and aunt Helen and I occupied the back.  Uncle always drove at a good round gallop.  His idea was to have good horses, not donkeys, and not to spare them, as there were plenty more to be had any day.  On this morning he went off at his usual pace.  Grannie urged as remonstrance that the dust was fearful when going at that rate.  I clapped my hands and exclaimed, “Go it, Mr Bossier!  Well done, uncle Jay-Jay!  Hurrah for Clancy!”