The train, as Priscilla prophesied, was strictly punctual. It was drawn up at the platform when she leaped off her bicycle in front of the station. As she passed through the gate she came face to face with Frank Mannix supported by the station master and the guard.
“Hullo!” she said. “You’re my cousin Frank, I suppose. You look rather sick.”
Frank gazed at her.
“Are you Priscilla?” he asked.
He had formed no very definite mental picture of his cousin beforehand. Little girls of fifteen years of age are not creatures of great interest to prefects who have made remarkable catches in the long field and look forward to establishing their manhood among the salmon and the grouse. So far as he had thought of Priscilla at all he had placed her in the background, a trim, unobtrusive maiden, who came down to dessert after dinner and was kept under proper control at other times by a governess. It shocked him a little to see a girl in a tousled blue cotton frock, with a green stain on the front of it, with a tangle of damp fair hair hanging round her head in shining strings, with unabashed fearless eyes which looked at him with a certain shrewd merriment.
“You look wobbly,” said Priscilla. “Can’t you walk by yourself?”
“I’ve met with an accident,” said Frank.
“That’s all right. I was afraid just at first that you might be the sort that collapsed altogether after being seasick. Some people do, you know, and they’re never much good for anything. I’m glad you’re not one of them. Accidents are different of course. Nobody can ever be quite sure of not meeting an accident.”
She glanced at the stain on the front of her dress as she spoke. It was the result of an accident.
“I’ve sprained my ankle,” said Frank.