The other seemed to read what was passing through his mind, for he said, with a twinkle in his eye,—
"I'm not a fellow travelling for a firm of photographers, as no doubt every one imagines. I'm"—pushing an envelope over to his companion—"that's my name."
Mr. Quentin took up the paper carelessly, cast his eye over it, became rather red, and laughed nervously. From this time forward, Mr. Lisle and Mr. Quentin chummed together on equal terms,—somewhat to the scandal of their neighbours, who were amazed that such a fastidious man as "Look and Die" Quentin should open his house, and his arms, to this unknown shabby stranger! His manners were studiously courteous and polite, but he understood how to entrench himself in a fortress of reserve, that held even Mrs. Creery, the chief lady of Port Blair, at bay, and this was saying much—driven very hard, two damaging statements had been, as it were, wrested from him! he liked the Andamans, because there was no daily post, and no telegrams, and he had no occupation now. Did not admission number one savour of a dread of suggestive-looking blue envelopes, and clamouring, hungry creditors—to whom he had effectually given the slip; and admission number two was worse still! no occupation now, was doubtless the result of social and financial bankruptcy. Mrs. Creery was disposed to deal hardly with him—in her opinion, he was an "outlaw." (She rather prided herself upon having fitted him neatly with a name.) If he had thrown her one sop of conciliation, or given her the least little hint about himself and his affairs, she might have tolerated him, but he remained perversely dumb. Mr. Quentin was dumb too—though it was shrewdly suspected that he knew more about his inmate than any one—and indeed he had gone so far as to deny that he was a professional photographer; when rigidly cross-examined by a certain lady, he only laughed, and shook his head, and said that "Lisle was a harmless lunatic—rather mad on the subject of photography and sea-fishing, but otherwise a pleasant companion;" but beyond this, he declined to enlighten his questioner. No assistance being forthcoming, society was obliged to classify the stranger for themselves, and they ticketed him as a genteel loafer, a penniless ne'er-do-well, who had come down to Port Blair in hopes (vain) of obtaining some kind of employment, and had now comfortably established himself as Mr. Quentin's hanger-on and unpaid companion!
It must be admitted that the stranger gave considerable colour to this view; he did not visit and mix with society on Ross, he wore shabby clothes and shocking hats, and spent most of his time tramping the bush with a gun on his shoulder or a camera on his back, "looking for all the world like an Italian organ-grinder or a brigand," according to that high authority, Mrs. Creery. For three months he had been without a competitor in the interest of the community, but now his day was over, his star on the wane: he was about to give place to a very rare and important new arrival, namely, an unmarried lady, who was currently reported to be "but eighteen years of age and very pretty!"
CHAPTER II.
EXPECTATION.
"For now sits expectation in the air,
And hides a sword."
—Henry V.
All this time Colonel Denis had been engaged in animated conversation with Mr. Quentin. Nature had been doubly generous to the latter gentleman, for she had not merely endowed him with unusual personal attractions, but had increased these attractions by the gift of a charming manner that fascinated every one who came in contact with him—from the General himself down to the sullen convict boatmen; it was quite natural to him, even when discussing a trivial subject, with an individual who rather bored him than otherwise, to throw such an appearance of interest into his words and looks that one would imagine all his thoughts were centred in the person before him and the topic under discussion.