It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls.  That wasn’t bad fun.  I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him.  I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed.  It was rather an air of I-have-alw
ays-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all-their-own-fault, which surrounded him.

“If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you let me go now.”

“Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.”

“Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!”

“Go on, I won’t poison you.  Come now, I’ll make you.”

“Oh, the missus might catch me.”

“No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.”

“Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: 

“Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot.  You haven’t been long here, have you?  I haven’t seen you before.  Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.”

I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle.  He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe.  It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way.

“Well, I never!  Not so much as blinked an eyelash!  Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?”

“In Gool-Gool.  He won’t be home till late.”

“Is Mrs Bossier in?”

“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.”

“Thanks.”

I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle.  I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.

“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed.  Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.”

“It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie?

“It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice.  Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.”

I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—­blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all.  I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon.  I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen.  She came.