He had just left school then--he must be
nearly twenty now."
"Oh--quite old," said Norah. "What is he like?"
"Pretty!" said Mr. Linton, wrinkling his nose. "As pretty as his
name--Cecil--great Scott! I wonder if he'd let me call him Bill for
short! Bit of a whipper-snapper, he seemed; but I didn't take very much
notice of him--saw he was plainly bored by his uncle from the Bush, so I
didn't worry him. Well, now he's ours for a time your aunt doesn't
limit--more that that, if I can make a guess at these hieroglyphics,
I've got to send a telegram to say we'll have him on Saturday."
"And this is Wednesday--oh, Dad!" expostulated Norah.
"Can't be helped," her father said. "We've got to go through with it;
if the boy has been ill he must certainly have all the change we can
give him. But I'm doubtful. Eva says he's had a 'nervous breakdown,'
and I rather think it's a complaint I don't believe in for boys of
twenty."
The dinner gong sounded. Amid its echoes Norah might have been heard
murmuring something about "nervous grandmother."
"H'm," said her father, laughing; "I don't think he'll find much
sympathy with his more fragile symptoms in Billabong--we must try to
brace him up, Norah. But whatever will Jim say, I wonder!"
"He'll be too disgusted for words," Norah answered.
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