There was young Malcolm Athling, as
nice-looking, decent, level-headed a fellow as any one could wish to
meet, obviously her very devoted admirer, and yet she must throw herself
away on this pale-eyed, weak-mouthed embodiment of self-approving
ineptitude. If it had been merely Kathleen's own affair Rupert would
have shrugged his shoulders and philosophically hoped that she might make
the best of an undeniably bad bargain. But Rupert had no heir; his own
boy lay underground somewhere on the Indian frontier, in goodly company.
And the property would pass in due curse to Kathleen and Kathleen's
husband. The Sheep would live there in the beloved old home, rearing up
other little Sheep, fatuous and rabbit-faced and self-satisfied like
himself, to dwell in the land and possess it. It was not a soothing
prospect.
Towards dusk on the afternoon following the bridge experience Rupert and
the Sheep made their way homeward after a day's mixed shooting. The
Sheep's cartridge bag was nearly empty, but his game bag showed no signs
of over-crowding. The birds he had shot at had seemed for the most part
as impervious to death or damage as the hero of a melodrama.
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