"Visitors, Uncle! Oh, bother!" continued the Burrows girl fretfully; "they'll be wanting supper."
"The duties of hospitality," said the man sententiously, "must"—
"Oh, drat the duties! You never have to wash up." Then, to appease him: "I don't want any company, Uncle—except you. I wonder who are they? Not prospectors, anyway. The big one looks like a soldier."
"Mounted police."
"And the little one?" she spoke under her breath. "'In this style three and sixpence,'—I've seen lots like him; but the big one is 'positively thrown away at a guinea.'"
"Good evening, gentlemen."
"Same to you," said the big man, reining up close before the cabin. "I had orders to deliver this package with the talking end up."
"Mr. Burrows, I think," said the little man, drawing nearer. "My name's Ramsay, and my father asked me to deliver this letter of introduction."
"What! From Augustus Ramsay & Co.? This is indeed fortunate. Welcome; most heartily welcome, Mr. Ramsay. Let me present to you my niece, Miss Violet."
For some minutes the Blackguard sat his horse impatient, holding Ramsay's rein while compliments flew thick—Balham compliments, bourgeois civilities. He was the "common soldier" once more, Ramsay's soldier-servant from the Burrows' point of view. Then the girl came to him, rather ashamed, he thought, asked him to "get down," hoped he was not very tired, led him off to a shed which served for a stable, showed him the water-hole, the oats, the lantern, the compressed hay, and finally ran off to light up her kitchen stove for a second supper.