"Meg!" cried Marmaduke, aghast.
"Oh, Marmaduke! Why? How did you come?" wailed his sister, jumping up and looking round as if for escape.
The Reverend Patrick Bryce, however, stood his ground. He was a small spare man of about fifty, dapper and spruce, his curling grey hair having the appearance of a wig under his low crowned hat, his clear, starched clerical bands natty to a degree.
"Captain Marmaduke Muir, I presume," he said, with a bow of a marquis. "I regret much exposing my dear Miss Margaret Muir to this unpleasantness, but I beg you to believe that, as my affianced wife, I am ready to defend her to the uttermost."
Marmaduke looked from one to the other of the delinquents.
"You don't mean to say, Meg," he said at last, "that you wish to marry the minister?"
The very idea seemed to him preposterous, absurd; he almost laughed at it.
The Reverend Patrick Bryce gave her no time for reply.
"She not only desires to marry me, sir, but she is going to do so, please God, before long. Yes, sir, I propose to take her away from a demoralising atmosphere, and give her, to the utmost of my power, the love and affection she deserves."
He looked very gallant as he made his little speech, and Marmaduke acknowledged to himself that he played the gentleman well. Still, he turned again to his sister in incredulity.