“She goes about with a face as round-eyed as a baby’s, and as smooth; while all the time I know—”
Linnell turned to him a look so full of agony that he ceased on the instant, but began again.
“I cannot help it, Dick,” he said. “It worries me to see you growing so listless over a passion for a woman who does not care a straw for you.”
“If I could believe that,” said Linnell, “I could bear it; but I am tortured by doubts, and every friend I have seems to be bent upon blackening the reputation of a woman who has been cruelly maligned.”
Mellersh began to whistle softly, and then said, sharply:
“What! going in here?”
“Yes; will you come?”
“No,” said Mellersh, giving him a curious look. “Expect a letter? Tut-tut, man, don’t eat me. You would not be the first man who made a post-office of Miss Clode’s circulating library. What is it, then—fiddle-strings?”
Linnell nodded.
“Go in, then; you can join me presently. I shall be on the pier. I say, Dick, the fair directress of this establishment ought to put up on her sign, ‘Dealer in heart-strings and fiddle-strings.’ There, good-bye for the present.”