The poor lad turned pale as death.
"Whose marriage?"
"Mine and my cousin's. Did you not know we were engaged?"
Ronald finished his drink in a mechanical sort of way, and putting down his glass, walked away to his cabin, and shut himself in. The Marchese looked after him with a grim smile.
"I think that will give you food for reflection my friend," he muttered, lighting a cigarette as he strolled away.
"What's up with that Maltese devil?" asked Bentley. "He looks quite pleased with himself."
"It's more than Monteith did; he walked away as pale as a ghost," said Pat.
"It's about the girl from Malta, you bet," said Bentley, sagely, and no one contradicted him.
Miss Cotoner was without her attentive cavalier all that day, and was much surprised thereat. She asked her cousin about him, and that smiling gentleman told her Ronald was ill, and had gone to lie down. And indeed, Ronald was ill, not with a headache, but with a heart-ache, which is worse, and he lay all day in his narrow berth bemoaning his hard fate. Nor did he come to dinner, and Miss Cotoner was so vexed to think he was so ill, that she sent her steward with a little note to his cabin, saying how sorry she was, and she hoped he would be well enough on the morrow to take her over Gibraltar, all of which Monteith read and puzzled over.
"She's a flirt, a heartless coquette," cried the poor boy; "she's engaged to another man, and she's trying to break my heart, but she won't. I care no more for her than this bit of paper," and he threw the little note on the floor.