She burst open the green-house door.
“Edward; how you are snoring! Do rouse yourself. Who do you think is in the drawing-room?”
“Dear me, Felicia! How can I tell,” replied Edward Starling, rubbing his eyes and looking at his sister-in-law in a dazed way. “You know perfectly well that I don’t see visitors on Sunday. It is my one day of rest after a week of toil.”
“A week of toil, indeed! Why, you do nothing. But rouse yourself now, if you don’t want your child to lose her golden chance in life. There is no less a person waiting for you in the drawing-room than the great traveller, Malcolm Durrant!”
Now the fame of this very great person had penetrated even to Edward Starling’s ears, and he roused himself at the news, fixing his eyes in some amazement on his sister-in-law.
“You must be dreaming,” he said. “It is quite impossible that Durrant should come here.”
“But he has come here! It is about Robina; he wants to settle her in life, to do everything for her. You had best go and clinch the bargain. What he sees in her is more than I can tell. If I had my way, and could speak honestly to the poor dear man, I would say ‘Don’t’ fast enough. But there—these geniuses always take strange fancies—do let me pull your collar down, Edward, and smooth that long lock of your front hair. It looks so queer half hanging down your back. Now then, you look better. Go in: make yourself agreeable. I will follow in a few minutes just to see that you don’t make a fool of yourself.”