“No, sir, for the liberty I took just now.”
“Oh no,” he said; “it was a minute’s relapse to old times. And now,” he continued, taking her hand, to lead her to the door, “it is very late, and I must finish my letter. Good night, nurse.”
“Good night, sir—and—God bless you!” she exclaimed, passionately.
And the door closed between them—another woman seeming to be the one who went upstairs.
“Sing Heigh—Sing Ho!”
Trevor’s letter was sent off by one of the grooms by eight o’clock; for, accustomed to late watches and short nights at sea, the master of Penreife was down betimes, eagerly inspecting his stables and horses, and ending by making inquiries for Humphrey Lloyd, to find that he was away somewhere or another to look after the game.
Donning a wideawake, and looking about as unlike a naval officer as could be, he summoned the butler, to name half-past nine as the breakfast hour, and then, with little Polly watching him from one of the windows, he strode off across the lawn.
Polly sighed as she looked after him, and then she started, for a couple of hands were laid upon her shoulder, and turning hastily, it was to confront Mrs Lloyd, whose harsh countenance wore quite a smile as she gazed fixedly in the girl’s blushing face, and then kissed her on the forehead.
“He’s a fine, handsome-looking man, isn’t he, child?” said the housekeeper. “Don’t you think so?”