"And what is, the name of the yacht?" he asked, with deep interest.
"Her name?" repeated Mr. Frettlby, hastily. "Oh, a very ugly name, and one which I intend to change. At present she is called the 'Rosanna.'"
"Rosanna!"
Brian and his betrothed both started at this, and the former stared curiously at the old man, wondering at the coincidence between the name of the yacht and that of the woman who died in the Melbourne slum.
Mr Frettlby flushed a little when he saw Brian's eye fixed on him with such an enquiring gaze, and rose with an embarrassed laugh.
"You are a pair of moon-struck lovers," he said, gaily, taking an arm of each, and leading them into the house "but you forget dinner will soon be ready."
CHAPTER XXIII.
ACROSS THE WALNUTS AND THE WINE.
Moore, sweetest of bards, sings—