"No white-haired rector, indeed," said Meg.
"Then the curate? All the ladies are fascinated by the curate."
"Not the curate. My charmer is an inmate of the house."
"An inmate?" repeated Mr. Standish, perplexed.
"On the day of my arrival he was so pleasant and cordial his greeting almost made me feel at home."
"I wonder who he is!" said Mr. Standish.
"As you look troubled, I will be generous and tell you," said Meg, and paused.
"Well," said Mr. Standish, "who is he?"
"My charmer of the admirable coat, the impressive mustache, and the splendid eyes is—well—my black cat. He it was who received me cordially, sat by my fire, purred a welcome, and followed me about with a tail straight as that;" and she lifted her parasol to a perpendicular.
Sometimes the talk drifted to Sir Malcolm's son, who had been the editor's friend, and whose portrait, turned to the wall, appealed with a piteous interest to Meg, and was always recurring to her mind.