"Nay: if you are not constant, the message has no merit—begone!" and he tossed the flower from him. "Ho, fellow!" to a man in servant's clothes, who was passing at a little distance, "I forgot my walking-stick; you will find it by yonder bush—fetch it."
The man glanced up, hesitated the fraction of a second, then a smile passed over his face, and he acquiesced.
"Very well, sir," he answered, and went on.
The voice was deep and full, as of one accustomed to giving orders rather than receiving them.
Miss Stirling stopped, stared—and, then, went swiftly in pursuit. Parkington watched her in surprise.
"Mr. Marbury!" she called. "Mr. Marbury!"
The tall figure, in osnaburg breeches and shirt, heavy shoes and coarse worsted stockings, swung around, and laughed.
"I trust you are well, Miss Stirling," he said—"Oh," as she began to explain for Sir Edward—"it is not the first time I have been taken for one of my own servants, and besides I come by it honestly. The feathers made the birds, Miss.—Sir Edward Parkington, I presume; I have heard my son speak of you," and he held out a hand that bore all the evidences of toil and hardship, and that was, distinctly, not the hand of a gentleman.
"I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Marbury," said Parkington. "This is——
"But you did not expect to meet me in such clothes, hey?" with a quiet little chuckle. "Well, you see, I'm more at home in them. You were saying that this is——"