Cyril laughed and relapsed into a sitting position. "Dearest, your father cannot harm me in any way. I have heard of his quarter-deck. I suppose he has it to remind him of the bridge of a steamer when he was skipper."
"I hope he hasn't seen you," said Bella anxiously, "for then he would come straight here, and——"
"Let him come, and then I shall ask him to let me marry you."
"He will refuse. He wants me to marry Mr. Pence."
"What!" Lister frowned. "That half-baked psalm-singer? What nonsense, and what cheek. The idea of that Pence creature aspiring to your hand. I wish we could marry at once. But——" He paused, and shook his head. Lines appeared on his forehead, and a vexed look in his eyes. "It's impossible," he said with a deep breath.
"Why is it impossible?" asked Bella imperiously and very directly.
"My dear, I am very poor, and just make enough to keep my head above water. Besides, there is another reason."
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you," he said in low voice, and becoming suddenly pale; "no one but the wearer knows where the shoe pinches, you know."
"Cyril." Bella wreathed her arms around his neck. "You have a secret. I have noticed several times that you have been worried. Sometimes you forget everything when we are together, and your face becomes like that of an old man. I must know your secret, so that I can help you."