“Miss Vickers, I think. My name is Meekin—the Reverend Arthur Meekin.”
“How do you do, Mr. Meekin?” said Sylvia, putting out one of her small hands, and looking straight at him. “Papa will be in directly.”
“His daughter more than compensates for his absence, my dear Miss Vickers.”
“I don't like flattery, Mr. Meekin, so don't use it. At least,” she added, with a delicious frankness, that seemed born of her very brightness and beauty, “not that sort of flattery. Young girls do like flattery, of course. Don't you think so?”
This rapid attack quite disconcerted Mr. Meekin, and he could only bow and smile at the self-possessed young lady. “Go into the kitchen, Danny, and tell them to give you some tobacco. Say I sent you. Mr. Meekin, won't you come in?”
“A strange old gentleman, that, Miss Vickers. A faithful retainer, I presume?”
“An old convict servant of ours,” said Sylvia. “He was with papa many years ago. He has got into trouble lately, though, poor old man.”
“Into trouble?” asked Mr. Meekin, as Sylvia took off her hat.
“On the roads, you know. That's what they call it here. He married a free woman much younger than himself, and she makes him drink, and then gives him in charge for insubordination.”
“For insubordination! Pardon me, my dear young lady, did I understand you rightly?”