"He must not be allowed to propose," for, strange and bewildering as it seemed to the girl, yet, assuming him to be a lover, that was the young man's end and aim—"to propose: it would be too terrible." Besides, he had no right to do so; Hazel must save him from himself—he was deceiving himself: he was not a proper lover, a real lover. It was too absurd. She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. Intuitively her thoughts turned to Paul for help. The next moment the girl had shrunk within herself—her face aflame. The only place in the whole world that presented itself to her imagination was her mother's shoulder; but she was all unconscious that it was from Paul she desired to hide her face.
Presently she grew more collected, and took herself to task. She told herself that all her good sense and wisest judgment must be brought to bear upon the subject. She did not think she should trouble her mother: she might conceivably confide in Teddie, if she found it expedient to do so, but certainly, oh certainly, in no one else. And perhaps, after all, she could manage unaided; perhaps some coldly proffered hints would bring Digby to his senses. Even now she believed she must be mistaken—it was so preposterous, this new idea.
In the meantime she must set herself resolutely to put the thing out of her mind. Only so could she attend properly to the business in hand. She unfolded the manuscript, re-read it, and found that she was still satisfied with it, although the details of the story began to pall a little, as was natural.
As she finished reviewing the precious document the train drew up in Paddington Station, and there upon the platform, trying hard not to look interested, stood Teddie.
Hazel's eyes lighted on him instantly. Eagerly, almost tremulously, she once more unfolded the manuscript, and, springing from the carriage, ran to his side.
"It is called 'The Victoria Cross, and How it was Won,'" she announced breathlessly to her astonished brother, and forthwith began to read.
"What is?" Teddie asked, bluntly interrupting her.
"Why, the story," she answered, for the moment confounded by her auditor's lack of sympathy and appreciation. "Didn't you know? I have written a story," and she was about to proceed with the narrative, when he again interposed.
"I know nothing," he said with an injured air, "but that you wanted me to meet this train, and did not give me time to say I could not; it was dashed inconvenient, I can tell you."
For a moment the girl's ardour was damped.