“Pooh, pooh, Kate!  But as to Girdlestone, he is perfectly right.  If I had you I should keep you fast to myself, I promise you.  Eh, Matilda?”

“That we would, George.”

“Perfect tyrants, both of us.  Eh, Matilda?”

“Yes, George.”

“I am afraid that I am not very useful in a household,” said the girl.  “I was too young to look after things for poor papa.  Mr. Girdlestone, of course, has a housekeeper of his own.  I read the Financial News to him after dinner every day, and I know all about stock and Consols and those American railways which are perpetually rising and falling.  One of them went wrong last week, and Ezra swore, and Mr. Girdlestone said that the Lord chastens those whom He loves.  He did not seem to like being chastened a bit though.  But how delightful this is!  It is like living in another world.”

The girl was a pretty figure as she stood in the window, tall, lithe, and graceful, with the long soft curves of budding womanhood.  Her face was sweet rather than beautiful, but an artist would have revelled in the delicate strength of the softly rounded chin, and the quick bright play of her expression.  Her hair, of a deep rich brown, with a bronze shimmer where a sunbeam lay athwart it, swept back in those thick luxuriant coils which are the unfailing index of a strong womanly nature.  Her deep blue eyes danced with life and light, while her slightly retrousse nose and her sensitive smiling mouth all spoke of gentle good humour.  From her sunny face to the dainty little shoe which peeped from under the trim black skirt, she was an eminently pleasant object to look upon.  So thought the passers-by as they glanced up at the great bow window, and so, too, thought a young gentleman who had driven up to the hotel door, and who now bounded up the steps and into the room.  He was enveloped in a long shaggy ulster, which stretched down to his ankles, and he wore a velvet cap trimmed with silver stuck carelessly on the back of his powerful yellow curled head.

“Here is the boy!” cried his mother gaily.

“How are you, mam dear?” he cried, stooping over her to kiss her.  “How are you, dad?  Good morning, Cousin Kate.  You must come down and wish us luck.  What a blessing that it is pretty warm.  It is miserable for the spectators when there is an east wind.  What do you think of it, dad?”

“I think you are an unnatural young renegade to play against your mother country,” said the sturdy doctor.

“Oh, come, dad!  I was born in Scotland, and I belong to a Scotch club.  Surely that is good enough.”

“I hope you lose, then.”

“We are very likely to.  Atkinson, of the West of Scotland, has strained his leg, and we shall have to play Blair, of the Institution, at full back—­not so good a man by a long way.  The odds are five to four on the English this morning.  They are said to be the very strongest lot that ever played in an International match.  I have brought a cab with me, so the moment you are ready we can start.”