“Pray say no more, Mr Chumbley,” said Grey, with a troubled look.
“But I shall say more, even at the risk of being considered rude,” continued Chumbley. “He is making a great mistake, just as a great many more men have made the same blunder.”
Grey tried to speak, but the words would not come.
“He’ll wake up some day,” continued Chumbley. “At present his eyes are dazzled.”
“Mr Chumbley!” said Grey, in a low, earnest, appealing tone.
She only uttered the young officer’s name, but the way in which it was spoken sufficed, and he bowed his head in answer, and for the next few minutes neither spoke.
“Miss Stuart, you may trust me,” he said, at last.
“I do, Mr Chumbley,” she replied, and a conscious feeling of pride and satisfaction thrilled the young soldier, as he looked in the frank grey eyes.
The conversation went buzzing on all around, nobody seeming to notice him; and Chumbley began to commune with himself as he gazed straight before him now.
“She’s taken with Hilton,” he said. “There’s no mistake about it. Now, why didn’t the little maid take a fancy to me? She’s very nice—very nice indeed; and I think she would be as earnest and truthful as a woman could be. Isn’t my luck, though—no, not my luck.