As she spoke, a gay voice, a dog's bark, a scuffle, was heard without; and the girl they both loved whisked in, waving a roll of vellum in her hand.
"Behold," said she, "the result of my labours! A certificate about the size of an ordinary table-cloth, signed by about a dozen men whom nobody ever heard of. If that doesn't convince people of my competency nothing ever will!"
She tossed the document in Brenda's lap, and sat down on the fender-stool, a little out of breath.
She had not changed greatly since her early teens; but she had improved. She was still small, though not too small; still pale, but with the clear, rose pallor of a Malmaison carnation. Her soft, fair hair was becomingly arranged, her movements graceful, her manner decidedly good.
"It's going to snow," cried she. "March is going out like a lion! Pater, I hope the wind won't nip our crocuses."
"A Cleveshire crocus laughs at frost," said Helston. "But will a Cleveshire maiden laugh at an impertinent newspaper paragraph?"
"Paragraph! You don't tell me! Where? After all my trouble!" She stopped short, indignant, her cheeks suddenly rose-colour. "Well, I don't care," she concluded defiantly. "Ne'er a reporter of them all shall flout me out of my humour."
"Shall I read it?"
"Certainly!"
Helston did so, not without relish. When he had done, the girl made a sound of disdain.