"No," she faltered. "I think not. No," more audibly, "I do not," blushing deeply as she spoke.
"Why?" he asked rather anxiously.
"I cannot give you any reason," she stammered, somewhat abashed by the steadfastness of his gaze, "except a woman's reason, that it is so——"
"I am sincerely grateful to you, Miss Denis; your confidence is not misplaced.—I am not the man in question. Mrs. Creery has got hold of the wrong end of the stick for once. I know of whom she is thinking," his face darkened as he spoke, "a namesake and, I am ashamed to say, a relation of mine. It is extremely good-natured of the old lady, to make me the subject of her correspondence." Then in quite another tone he said, "I suppose you have heard of our start to-morrow?"
"Yes," she replied, scarcely above a whisper.
"I'm a regular bird of passage, and ought to have been away weeks ago; and you yourself will probably be on the wing before long." (He was thinking of her marriage with Jim Quentin, but how could she know that?)
"Oh, not for a year at any rate! Papa does not expect that we shall be moved before then," she answered quite composedly. "I am sorry you are going to the Nicobars—I mean, you and Mr. Quentin," hastily correcting herself. "It's a horribly unhealthy place—soldiers and convicts die there by dozens from—fever," her lip quivered a little as she spoke.
"Not quite so bad as you think," returned her companion, moving his elbow an inch closer to her. "I'm an old traveller, you know,—and I will look after him for you."
"Look after who?" she asked in amazement.
"Why, Quentin, to be sure. I know all about it. I," lowering his voice, "am in the secret."