“Well, busy little Grey,” said the Resident, merrily, as he seated himself beside the earnest-eyed Scottish maiden, “what is the new piece of needlework now?”
“Only a bit of embroidery, Mr Harley,” she replied, giving him a quick, animated glance, and the look of trouble upon her face passing away.
“Ha!” he said, taking up the piece of work and examining it intently, “what a strange thing it is that out in these hot places, while we men grow lazier, you ladies become more industrious. Look at Chumbley for instance, he’s growing fatter and slower every day.”
“Oh, but he’s very nice, and frank, and natural,” said Grey with animation.
“Yes,” said the Resident, “he’s a good fellow. I like Chumbley. But look at the work in that embroidery now—thousands and thousands of stitches. Why what idiots our young fellows are!”
“Why, Mr Harley?” said the girl, wonderingly.
“Why, my child? Because one or the other of them does not make a swoop down and persuade you to let him carry you off.”
“Are you all so tired of me already?” said Grey, smiling.
“Tired of you? Oh, no, little one, but it seems to me that you are such a quiet little mouse that they all forget your very existence.”
“I am happy enough with my father, and very glad to join him once more, Mr Harley.”