“How do you do, cousin?” he said; and a broad, genial smile revealed a set of white teeth.
Mattie retreated a step in genuine affright.
“For you know, Archie,” she explained afterwards, in her simple way, “we have no cousins worth mentioning, except Sophy Trinder, who is not our cousin at all, but mother’s; and so you see it sounded so very odd.”
“Very odd indeed,” muttered Archie.
“If you please, Mr. Drummond—that is my brother—is out, and I am going out too,” faltered Mattie, who was not a specially heroic little person, and who decidedly had not got her wits about her just then.
“I do not want Mr. Drummond, whoever he may be. I never heard of him in my life. I only want my aunt and cousins. Which of them are you, eh? Why, you must be Nan, I suppose?” And the big man looked down at her with a sort of supercilious good nature. The name gave Mattie instant enlightenment.
“Nan!—Oh, you must mean the Challoners!” she exclaimed, with a little gasp of surprise.
“Yes, of course; I am a Challoner myself. Well, which of them are you, eh? You are a long time telling me your name.” And the new-comer peered down at her still more curiously, as though he were surprised to find anything so small and ordinary-looking.
Mattie never looked to advantage in her waterproof. More than once her brother had threatened to burn the old rag of a thing.
“My name is Mattie Drummond,” replied the bewildered 285 Mattie, trying to speak with dignity,—she never would call herself Matilda, she hated it so,—“and I live with my brother, who is the clergyman of the parish. This is the vicarage: if you want the Friary, it is a little lower down the road.”