The beginning of autumn saw Harold travelling in Queensland with a mob of bulls. The old house was now lonely indeed for Edith; and this drove her thoughts away to Harold across the border, or to wayward Marian in the restless capital. She had always been used to plenty of company. Christmas had been a jolly time, with its congenial guests, festive games, and flirtations; the merry dancing, picnicking, mustering, and kangaroo hunting; all the sports of a country home came in for patronage.
She was too much of a philomath to be as good a companion to Mrs. Merton as Miss Moncton had been. But the old lady slept much more now than formerly, and was contented enough that Edith was in the house. Magnus Susman was often there, too, to keep her company, for he could be gracious enough when he chose; but it was mere dissemblement; for it was Edith's society he sought. He had purchased Moore and Milton at the bookseller's, that he might be able to talk poetry with her; and he had endeavoured to improve his faulty vamping that he might play to her while she sang some pretty love song. His intentions had become apparent to her long ago, and, indignant at his audacity and presumption, she had latterly fled to the library at the first intimation of his approach.
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