"If I do will you entertain the proposal, Lord Glengall?"
"Provided she's not too old and will marry me for myself."
"I think I can find her for you, Lord Glengall."
"Come, Sylvia, give Glengall his tea, and don't be talking nonsense," said Mr. Graydon, laughing.
"Here it is for you, Lord Glengall, just as you like it—hot, strong and sweet."
"Thank you, Miss Sylvia; it's as good as ever I made for myself in the Bush."
The two men fell to talking of business matters, while Sylvia manipulated the teacups. Now and again she looked towards the door. Mary was finishing her letter to Mick in the chilly room upstairs, and Pamela had taken the dogs for a walk.
"If they don't come soon," muttered Sylvia over her teacup, "this tea won't be fit to drink, and Bridget's in no humour to make more."
A rat-tat at the hall-door knocker interrupted her meditations.
"Some of those young fellows from the barracks, Sylvia," suggested her father.