"He knows the houses I supply as well as I do, miss."
On his rejoining her, "Any special fad?" she asked.
"Well, he's steady-going as a rule, miss,—don't mind motors, or trains, or stone-crushers a bit,—but it's a funny thing he can't stand wheelbarrers! Shies at 'em quite skittish."
Sheila Pat listened with absorbed interest. The milkman came to the last house on his list, and she drove him in style to the dairy. The conversation on the way was strictly horsey. As they drew up she mentioned where she was going.
"Mr. Yovil? Oh, we supply him. I'll take you there, miss; it's close by."
So it came about that Mr. Mark Yovil, looking forth from his study window, beheld his milkman driven to his gate by a very small and very dignified driver, who, after bidding the cob a lingering and loving farewell, shook hands with the milkman, and entered Mr. Yovil's gate.
A few minutes later a rigidly grave maid announced: "Miss Sheila Patricia Kathleen O'Brien," and the Atom walked in.
"How-do-you-do? I am the sister of Denis O'Brien."
Mr. Yovil took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief, then he fixed them on the brown and bumpy bridge of his nose, and regarded her through them.
"I'm sure I'm very pleased to see you," he said in a particularly charming voice. Sheila Pat would never have dreamt how exceedingly curt and cutting that voice could be. "Pray sit down."