“By Jove! Was that you? I thought I had seen your face somewhere before.”
“I wonder you did not recognise me.”
“I say, don’t breathe a word. It might get about. I can’t keep away from her, she’s so awfully pretty.”
“Who is she?”
“Her father’s a blacksmith. You’d never think it to hear her speak, though. I’ve often thought of taking her to town, but I should never be able to show my face down here again.”
“It would be very awkward for your sister.”
“It would be awkward altogether.”
A figure in white appeared on the veranda. It was Edith Gascoyne, tall, fair, quite beautiful.
She greeted me courteously, her brother looking on nervously the while. He then hurried me off to get a brush down, and left me in his bedroom murmuring that he would be back in a minute. I was perfectly aware that he had gone to tell his sister who I was. In a few minutes he returned and I saw at a glance that his short interview had not been altogether pleasant. There was a determined look round his jaw that was somewhat unusual, and I guessed that he had been putting his foot down. If, however, he had been compelled to insist on his sister welcoming me, she certainly showed none of the chagrin of defeat in the perfect courtesy and queenliness with which she advanced to me when I came down into the drawing-room.
“My brother says we are cousins, Mr. Rank.”