MAGDA'S OLD CHUM
"SO you know the Roystons," remarked Edward Fairfax to his cousin, Mrs. Miles.
He had arrived the evening before, and had been occupied for an hour past with the newspaper, near an open window. It was a fine day, late in July.
There was nothing restless or impulsive about him. Though only six years Magda's senior, he might have been well over thirty, judging from his outlines, his immobility, and his scanty hair. He was neither small and slim like Rob, nor tall and muscular like Ivor; but of another stamp altogether. Medium in site, and solid in make, he had rugged features, yet a very pleasant face. As he sat thus, silent and motionless, a looker-on could hardly have imagined the possibility of Fairfax out of temper. He seemed to be made up of kindliness and good sense. A queer little twinkle in his light-grey eyes gave promise of the "saving sense of humour," which alone goes a long way; and he also had a well-shaped head. As he spoke, he glanced over the edge of his newspaper.
"We know them well. Especially the second girl."
"Magda?"
"That is the one. She says she knew you in old days."
"Yes. Odd little scarecrow of a being, when I first came across her. She'd got into a way of talking all over the shop about her troubles. I cured her of that—made her tell me instead. I used to chaff her fearfully, and she took it well."
"Perhaps she wouldn't have taken it well from everybody. What sort of troubles?"
"Oh, a rum lot! She was always in hot water, somehow. I never could make out who was to blame. So I just told her to keep a stiff upper lip, and not to worry. She had ripping hair—all down her back."