“Oh! I say; don’t, Miss Linton. What a jolly shame it is,” he cried, throwing off all form. “You always laugh and poke fun at me.”
“Not I, Mr Roberts,” she replied. “When you are stiff and formal, I shape my conduct to suit yours; when you come as the nice, frank, manly boy that we are always so glad to see, I am sure I never laugh at you then.”
“Boy? Yes, of course, you always treat me like a boy,” said Bob, dolefully. “Is a fellow never going to be a man?”
“Far too soon, I should think,” said Miss Linton, holding out her hand.
“Oh! I’m only a boy,” said Bob, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and looking so sadly injured, and in so comical a way, that Miss Linton could hardly refrain from laughing.
“Such a boy as I’m sure we are all very proud of,” said Miss Linton. “We have heard from my father and Lieutenant Johnson how bravely you behaved last night.”
“Gammon!” said Bob, blushing scarlet. “I only behaved like a boy. How is the wounded man you have had brought up here—Mr Ensign Long?”
“Poor boy!” said Rachel Linton quietly; “he has a nasty wound.”
“Say that again, Miss Linton,” cried Bob excitedly; “it does me good.”
“He has a nasty wound. Are you so pleased, then, that your friend is badly hurt?” said Miss Linton gravely.