“At six o’clock this evening, then,” said Tinman.  “We’re not fashionable in Winter.”

“Hang me, if I know when ever we were!” Van Diemen rejoined.

“Come, though, you’d like to be.  You’ve got your ambition, Philip, like other men.”

“Respectable and respected—­that ’s my ambition, Mr. Mart.”

Tinman simpered:  “With your wealth!”

“Ay, I ’m rich—­for a contented mind.”

“I ’m pretty sure you ’ll approve my new vintage,” said Tinman.  “It’s direct from Oporto, my wine-merchant tells me, on his word.”

“What’s the price?”

“No, no, no.  Try it first.  It’s rather a stiff price.”

Van Diemen was partially reassured by the announcement.  “What do you call a stiff price?”

“Well!—­over thirty.”

“Double that, and you may have a chance.”

“Now,” cried Tinman, exasperated, “how can a man from Australia know anything about prices for port?  You can’t divest your ideas of diggers’ prices.  You’re like an intoxicating drink yourself on the tradesmen of our town.  You think it fine—­ha! ha!  I daresay, Philip, I should be doing the same if I were up to your mark at my banker’s.  We can’t all of us be lords, nor baronets.”

Catching up his temper thus cleverly, he curbed that habitual runaway, and retired from his old friend’s presence to explode in the society of the solitary Martha.

Annette’s behaviour was as bitterly criticized by the sister as by the brother.

“She has gone to those Fellingham people; and she may be thinking of jilting us,” Mrs. Cavely said.

“In that case, I have no mercy,” cried her brother.  “I have borne”—­he bowed with a professional spiritual humility—­“as I should, but it may get past endurance.  I say I have borne enough; and if the worst comes to the worst, and I hand him over to the authorities—­I say I mean him no harm, but he has struck me.  He beat me as a boy and he has struck me as a man, and I say I have no thought of revenge, but I cannot have him here; and I say if I drive him out of the country back to his Gippsland!”

Martin Tinman quivered for speech, probably for that which feedeth speech, as is the way with angry men.

“And what?—­what then?” said Martha, with the tender mellifluousness of sisterly reproach.  “What good can you expect of letting temper get the better of you, dear?”

Tinman did not enjoy her recent turn for usurping the lead in their consultations, and he said, tartly, “This good, Martha.  We shall get the Hall at my price, and be Head People here.  Which,” he raised his note, “which he, a Deserter, has no right to pretend to give himself out to be.  What your feelings may be as an old inhabitant, I don’t know, but I have always looked up to the people at Elba Hall, and I say I don’t like to have a Deserter squandering convict’s money there—­with his forty-pound-a-year cook, and his champagne at seventy a dozen.  It’s the luxury of Sodom and Gomorrah.”