“I wish that old griffin would go,” thought Trevor, as the conversation went on about the sea, the country and its pursuits—a conversation which Aunt Matty thought to be flighty, and wanting in ballast—which she supplied.
But Aunt Matty did not mean to go, and dealt out more than one snub keen enough to have given offence to the young sailor, but for the genial looks of Lady Rea and the efforts of Fin, who, to her sister’s trouble, grew spiteful as soon as her aunt snubbed her ladyship, and became reckless in her speech.
Aunt Matty thought it was quite time for “the seafaring person,” as she mentally termed him, to go. She had never known a visit of ceremony last so long. On the contrary side, Trevor forgot all about its being a visit of ceremony: he was near his deity—for a warm attachment for the sweet, gentle girl was growing fast—and he liked the merry laughing eyes of Fin.
“By the way, Mr Trevor,” said Lady Rea. “I hear you’ve got beautiful horses.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Trevor. “I tried to get good ones.”
“I’m told they are lovely. The girls are just beginning riding—papa has had horses sent down for them.”
“I hope they are quiet and well broken,” said Trevor, with an anxious glance at Tiny.
“I don’t think, Fanny, that Mr Trevor can care to know about our simple domestic matters—our horses, for instance,” said Miss Matilda, now solid ice.
“Oh, sailors always love horses, aunty,” said Fin, colouring a little; and then mischievously, as she sent an arrow at Trevor, “because they can’t ride them.”
Aunt Matty’s lips parted, but no words came; and to calm her ruffled feelings she took a little dog—in strokes.