Tom was twisting his hat in both hands, his features worked in the attempt he made to control his agitation; but Elizabeth loved him too well for any notice of his odd manner—she was entirely absorbed in sympathy for his trouble.
"Oh, Tom, Tom!" she said, "I do hope absence—the change—will do you good."
"Yes," he broke in, with a strangled whistle that began as a groan; "yes, of course, thank you—oh, no doubt! You see, there's no knowing what good may come. But Lord bless you, Bess, if the old ship would only sink and land me safe as many fathoms under salt water as was convenient, it would be about the best thing that could happen to me."
"Don't talk so, Tom; you can't think how it pains me."
"Well, I won't—there, I'm all right now! Ti-rol-de-rol!" and Tom actually tried to sing. "I say, Bessie, she never—she don't seem, you know—?"
"What, Tom?"
"To be sorry I was going, you know?"
"Elsie? She has been so engrossed with her brother's journey——"
"Yes, of course," Tom broke in; "oh, it's not to be expected—nobody that wasn't a flounder ever would have asked! Ri-tol-de-rol! I'm a little hoarse this morning, but it's no matter—I only want to show I'm not put about, you know—that is, not much."
He moved uneasily about the chamber, upset light chairs and committed disasters generally; but all the while looked resolute as possible, and kept up his attempt at a song in a mournful quaver.