"This is Fay," was Frank's succinct introduction as we met in the middle of the lawn. "Now isn't he just what I told you?" he added, turning to his sister.
For a second a cool little hand lay in my own, and a pair of glorious grey eyes looked laughingly into mine, while a deep, almost boyish, voice replied: "Quite a look of Charles the First, and distinct dash of us but not the faintest flavour of Wylie."
"Thank you," I rejoined, "you have relieved my mind considerably."
Fay laughed Frank's merry gurgle. "It really was hard lines on you to be told you were Wylie-ish, and so untrue, too! Frankie, how could you be such a brute to the poor man?"
"I wasn't the least bit of a brute. I only meant he was like the Wylies in not looking or seeming his age. And, besides, you're always so keen on the Wylies that I thought you'd think it a compliment for anybody to be thought like them."
The mocking eyes were now turned upon Frank. "But no one is attached to many people whom one would hate to resemble. I adore the Wylies myself; but if you said I was like them I should knock you down."
Frank grinned. "If you could."
"I could—easily. I am quite as tall as you are and much stronger," retorted the redoubtable Miss Wildacre.
"And I am quite ready to keep the ring," I added.
Fay shook her head. "No, Sir Reginald; as I am strong I will be merciful, especially as I have put my best frock on in order to produce a favourable impression on you and Miss Kingsnorth. I'm not dressed for prize-fighting."