A. If he manages to pull through these seasons he will be second to none but Tyson in point of wealth.

Q. Is Five-Bob a very pretty place?

A. Yes; one of the show places of the district.  Q. Does he often come to
Caddagat?

A. Yes, he often drops in.

Q. What makes his hair so black and his moustache that light colour?

A. You’ll have to study science to find that out.  I’m sure I can’t tell you.

Q. Does he—?

“Now, Sybylla,” said auntie, laughing, “you are taking a suspicious interest in my sunburnt young giant.  Did I not tell you he was taking time by the forelock when he brought the apples?”

“Oh, auntie, I am only asking questions because—­”

“Yes, because, because, I understand perfectly.  Because you are a girl, and all the girls fall a victim to Harry’s charms at once.  If you don’t want to succumb meekly to your fate, ’Heed the spark or you may dread the fire.’  That is the only advice I can tender you.”

This was a Thursday, and on the following Sunday Harold Beecham reappeared at Caddagat and remained from three in the afternoon until nine at night.  Uncle Julius and Frank Hawden were absent.  The weather had taken a sudden backward lurch into winter again, so we had a fire.  Harold sat beside it all the time, and interposed yes and no at the proper intervals in grannie’s brisk business conversation, but he never addressed one word to me beyond “Good afternoon, Miss Melvyn,” on his arrival, and “Good night, Miss Melvyn,” when leaving.

I studied him attentively all the while.  What were his ideas and sentiments it were hard to tell:  he never expressed any.  He was fearfully and wonderfully quiet.  Yet his was an intelligent silence, not of that wooden brainless description which casts a damper on company, neither was it of the morose or dreaming order.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Principally Letters

Caddagat, 29th Sept., 1896

My dearest Gertie,

I have started to write no less than seven letters to you, but something always interrupted me and I did not finish them.  However, I’ll finish this one in the teeth of Father Peter himself.  I will parenthesize all the interruptions. (A traveller just asked me for a rose.  I had to get up and give him one.) Living here is lovely. (Another man inquired the way to Somingley Gap, and I’ve just finished directing him.) Grannie is terribly nice.  You could not believe.  She is always giving me something, and takes me wherever she goes.  Auntie is an angel.  I wish you could hear the piano.  It is a beauty.  There are dozens of papers and books to read.  Uncle is a dear old fellow.  You should hear him rave and swear sometimes when he gets in a rage.  It is great fun.  He brings me lollies, gloves, ribbons, or something every time he comes from town. (Two Indian hawkers