Grannie had arrived upon the scene, looking the essence of brisk respectability in a black silk gown and a white lace cap.  She cast on me a glance of severe disapproval, and denounced my conduct as shameful; but uncle Jay-Jay’s eyes twinkled as he dexterously turned the subject.

“Gammon, mother!  I bet you were often kissed when that youngster’s age.  I bet my boots now that you can’t count the times you did the same thing yourself.  Now, confess.”

Grannie’s face melted in a smile as she commenced a little anecdote, with that pathetic beginning, “When I was young.”

Aunt Helen sent me inside lest I should catch cold, and I stationed myself immediately inside the window so that I should not miss the conversation.  “I should think your niece is very excitable,” Mr Grey was saying to aunt Helen.

“Oh, very.”

“Yes; I have never seen any but very highly strung temperaments have that transparent brilliance of expression.”

“She is very variable—­one moment all joy, and the next the reverse.”

“She has a very striking face.  I don’t know what it is that makes it so.”

“It may be her complexion,” said aunt Helen; “her skin is whiter than the fairest blonde, and her eyebrows and lashes very dark.  Be very careful you do not say anything that would let her know you think her not nice looking.  She broods over her appearance in such a morbid manner.  It is a weak point with her, so be careful not to sting her sensitiveness in that respect.”

“Plain-looking!  Why, I think she has one of the most fascinating faces I’ve seen for some time, and her eyes are simply magnificent.  What colour are they?”

“The grass is not bad about Sydney.  I think I will send a truck Of fat wethers away next week,” said uncle Jay-Jay to grannie.

“It is getting quite dark.  Let’s get in to dinner at once,” said grannie.

During the meal I took an opportunity of studying the appearance of Everard Grey.  He had a typically aristocratic English face, even to the cold rather heartless expression, which is as established a point of an English blue blood as an arched neck is of a thoroughbred horse.

A ringer, whose wife had been unexpectedly confined, came for grannie when dinner was over, and the rest of us had a delightful musical evening.  Uncle Jay-Jay bawled “The Vicar of Bray” and “Drink, Puppy, Drink” in a stentorian bass voice, holding me on his knee, pinching, tickling, pulling my hair, and shaking me up and down between whiles.  Mr Hawden favoured us by rendering “The Holy City”.  Everard Grey sang several new songs, which was a great treat, as he had a well-trained and musical baritone voice.  He was a veritable carpet knight, and though not a fop, was exquisitely dressed in full evening costume, and showed his long pedigreed blood in every line of his clean-shaven face and tall slight figure.  He was quite a champion on the piano, and played aunt Helen’s accompaniments while he made her sing song after song.  When she was weary uncle Jay-Jay said to me, “Now it’s your turn, me fine lady.  We’ve all done something to keep things rolling but you.  Can you sing?”