“It's a written apology; and I sha'n't catch cold, because I've got my stockings on. If you don't accept it,” she added, with an arching of the brows, “it is not my fault. I have struck you, but I apologize. Being a woman, I can't offer you satisfaction in the usual way.”
Mr. Frere stifled the impulse to laugh, and made his courteous adversary a low bow.
“I accept your apology, Miss Sylvia,” said he.
“Then,” returned Miss Sylvia, in a lofty manner, “there is nothing more to be said, and I have the honour to bid you good-night, sir.”
The little maiden drew her shawl close around her with immense dignity, and marched down the passage as calmly as though she had been Amadis of Gaul himself.
Frere, gaining his room choking with laughter, opened the folded paper by the light of the tallow candle, and read, in a quaint, childish hand:—
SIR,—I have struck you. I apologize in writing. Your humble servant to command, SYLVIA VICKERS.
“I wonder what book she took that out of?” he said. “'Pon my word she must be a little cracked. 'Gad, it's a queer life for a child in this place, and no mistake.”