“Your old Governor.”
This characteristic letter Thornhill read over, with a chuckle or two, stuck down the envelope and directed it.
Hyland Thornhill, Esq.
P.O. Box Something or other,
Johannesburg.
Just then Edala came in.
“Hullo. What’s that you’re sending, father?”
“Never you mind,” throwing it on the blotting pad, face downwards. “It’s a secret—another secret,” he could not refrain from adding, maliciously.
“But I will see,” she returned, making a playful, but tolerably determined snatch at the envelope. “Is it to Hyland? Is it?” as a brown and iron hand effectually baffled her attempt. “You are telling him to come—are you? Are you?”
“Ah-ah! Curiosity, thy name is woman!”
She had got him by the shoulders, and was shaking him, quite child-like and boisterous. He loved this mood.
“There are more people in the world than Hyland,” he said. “Why should I bother about an impudent neglectful rascal who hardly ever takes the trouble to communicate with the author of his being, let alone to come in person and ascertain whether that worthy is dead or not?”