“Oh, yes,” returned Sylvia, “they have that, certainly; but that is only on Sundays. But don't let us talk about this, Mr. Meekin,” she added, pushing back a stray curl of golden hair. “Papa says that I am not to talk about these things, because they are all done according to the Rules of the Service, as he calls it.”
“An admirable notion of papa's,” said Meekin, much relieved as the door opened, and Vickers and Frere entered.
Vickers's hair had grown white, but Frere carried his thirty years as easily as some men carry two-and-twenty.
“My dear Sylvia,” began Vickers, “here's an extraordinary thing!” and then, becoming conscious of the presence of the agitated Meekin, he paused.
“You know Mr. Meekin, papa?” said Sylvia. “Mr. Meekin, Captain Frere.”
“I have that pleasure,” said Vickers. “Glad to see you, sir. Pray sit down.” Upon which, Mr. Meekin beheld Sylvia unaffectedly kiss both gentlemen; but became strangely aware that the kiss bestowed upon her father was warmer than that which greeted her affianced husband.
“Warm weather, Mr. Meekin,” said Frere. “Sylvia, my darling, I hope you have not been out in the heat. You have! My dear, I've begged you—”
“It's not hot at all,” said Sylvia pettishly. “Nonsense! I'm not made of butter—I sha'n't melt. Thank you, dear, you needn't pull the blind down.” And then, as though angry with herself for her anger, she added, “You are always thinking of me, Maurice,” and gave him her hand affectionately.
“It's very oppressive, Captain Frere,” said Meekin; “and to a stranger, quite enervating.”
“Have a glass of wine,” said Frere, as if the house was his own. “One wants bucking up a bit on a day like this.”