The day was an intensely hot one, and when Mr Durrant appeared on the scene, he stood still for a minute to wipe the moisture from his brow.
“Hallo, little ’un!” he said to Rose who, not at all shy, toddled up to him.
“What’s ’oo want, g’ate big man?” was her inquiry.
“I want your father, or your mother, or your aunt,” was Malcolm Durrant’s reply. “I want some one who can tell me something. Now I know you can’t, because you’re too small.”
“There’s my auntie in the drawing-room,” said Violet at that moment. Violet by no means wished Rose to monopolise the stranger. “She’ll say ‘Don’t’ if you has mud on your boots: but you hasn’t, they is quite clean.”
“Only dusty,” said Rose. “Let’s dust ’em.”
She knelt down as she spoke, and, taking the skirt of her little white frock, began to remove the dust from the stranger’s boots.
“Don’t, Rose! Rose, how dare you!” called a shrill voice from the drawing-room, and Miss Felicia made her appearance through the open window. “How do you do, sir,” she said. “I must apologise for my niece. Really, Rose, your conduct is disgraceful. Go away at once to the nursery and get your frock changed; what a dreadful mess you are in!”
“Poor little one!” said Malcolm Durrant. “She but did what her sex did before her for the Saviour of all the world. Forgive her, madam.”
He spoke in a very courteous tone, and, raising his hat, exhibited a noble brow and features which at once puzzled Miss Felicia and caused her heart to beat. “Won’t you come indoors, sir?” she said.