Fin, too, was no wiser—though, for quite a quarter of an hour Frank Pratt was gazing, with knitted brow, through a second lorgnette at the little rocky cove where Sir Felix Landells was pestering her with attentions, and evidently labouring under the impression that unless she partook of lobster salad every five minutes she must feel faint.
Aunt Matty was the only really happy person in the party. She had, to the dismay of all, announced her intention of going, feeling sure that the change would benefit Pepine; and the way in which Vanleigh and Landells tried in emulation to gratify her whims was most flattering to her.
Not that she was deceived by the attentions, and imagined them extorted by her charms; she knew well enough the visitors’ aims, and was gratified at their discernment.
“They know how much depends upon my opinion,” she said to herself; and she smiled graciously upon them both as one carried Pepine down the rocks, the other her shawl, and gave his arm; ending by playfully sending them afterwards to the girls.
“Old girl’s warm, I know,” said Vanleigh to himself.
“We must keep in with the old nymph, Van,” said Sir Felix to him at the end of the day; just about the same time that Tiny was crying silently in her bedroom; and Fin striding up and down like a small tragedy queen.
“He’s a born idiot, Tiny!” she exclaimed; “and what pa can mean by making such a fuss over him, and telling me it’s a proud thing to become a lady of title, I don’t know. Ahem!—Lady Landells—fine, isn’t it? I don’t see that dear ma’s any happier for being Lady Rea.”
“Papa seems infatuated with them,” said Tiny, bitterly.
“Yes; and when he found that black captain paying you such attention, I saw him smile and rub his hands.”
“Oh, don’t Fin!” exclaimed Tiny, shuddering.