DEAR MR. MONK,--My uncle wants you to come and dine with us to-morrow at
five o'clock. He is expecting an Englishman to-day, a son of one of his
old Australian comrades, and would like you to make his acquaintance.
Yours, SIGRID FRICK.
It was not a love letter, not even a friendly epistle, but quite the
most conventional piece of writing one could receive; and yet it caused
me great happiness when this note arrived, in the fine bold handwriting
I got to know so well.
It was on a Saturday, a few days before Christmas. From the first day I
had seen Sigrid Frick, until now, I had employed the time in falling in
love as deplorably as ever a man can do, and I could see that my
attentions were not displeasing to her. And so, as a matter of course,
I accepted the invitation for dinner next day.
On my arrival at Villa Ballarat, I found old Frick beaming with delight.
"Here he is, Monk; here he is!--Reginald Howell, son of my old friend
Howell, who was the best man and the most faithful friend in the whole
world. I don't think my old friend, even when he was young, had such a
fine appearance as his son, here; but his heart was as true as gold, and
he was as reliable as a rock."
It would have been difficult for old Frick to get away from his
reminiscences of old Howell, but luckily his niece recalled him to the
present by intimating that he ought to introduce me to the young
Englishman before he indulged in them further.
He was a tall, handsome young fellow, about my own age, and of the dark
English type. His manners were easy and unaffected, as is usual with
Englishmen of good birth.
There was nothing particularly attractive about his face, although he
had fine eyes, somewhat dark, almost black, in fact, but without the
fire in them that usually accompanies eyes of that colour. His manners
were rather insinuating, though not at all unpleasant.