“I’m ready, auntie.  Where is he?”

“In the dining-room.”

“Come into the drawing-room and call him.  I will take charge of him till you are at leisure.  But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—­how on earth will I manage him?”

“Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.”

We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland.

I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—­his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs.

“Harry, this is Sybylla.  I’m sure you need no further introduction.  Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.”  And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other.

He stared down at me with undisguised surprise.  I looked up at him and laughed merrily.  The fun was all on my side.  He was a great big man—­rich and important.  I was a chit—­an insignificant nonentity—­yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it:  thus I laughed.

I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin.  No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things.  He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: 

“Do shake hands.  When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like.  Besides, I seem to know you well.  Just think of all the apples you brought me!”

He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly.  It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him.

“’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—­” Here he boggled completely, which had the effect of reviving my laughter.

“You had no right to be dressed like that—­deceiving a fellow.  It wasn’t fair.”

“That’s the best of it.  It shows what a larrikin Don Juan sort of character you are.  You can’t deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behaved member of society.”

“That is the first time I’ve ever meddled with any of the kitchen fry, and, by Jove, it will be the last!” he said energetically.  “I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.”

“What nonsense you talk,” I replied.  “If you say another word about it, I’ll write a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook.  But if you don’t worry about it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I was quite flattered.”