“Ya-as, exactly,” said Vanleigh; and he went out whistling softly.
“Good night, Trevor,” said Sir Felix, in turn. “’Fraid we’re doocid bad comp’ny. Too bad, I’m sure, going ’way as we do.”
“Good night, Flick,” said Trevor, smiling; and then, as the door closed, he turned to find Pratt leaning against the chimneypiece, counting over his winnings. “Well, my lad!” continued Trevor, trying to be gay.
“Twenty-five pounds, Dick,” said Pratt, laying the money on the table. “I shan’t take that.”
“Nonsense, man,” said Trevor; “keep it till Van wins it back. But what’s the matter? Have you found another of your mare’s-nests?”
“I was thinking, Dick,” said Pratt, gravely, “that you must be very sorry you asked any of us here.”
Trevor’s lips parted to speak; but without a word he wrung his friend’s hand, took his candle, and hastily left the room.
Before Dinner.
It was a busy day at Tolcarne, that of the dinner party. The picnic had not been a success. In fact, at one time, when very much bored by the attentions of Vanleigh, Tiny had gazed out to sea at a pretty little yacht gliding by, and longed to be on board—innocent, poor girl! of the fact that Dick Trevor was lying on the deck with a powerful lorgnette, seeing the party distinctly, and plainly making out the captain leaning on the rock by her side.