“God bless you for that!” said Trevor, in a low, hoarse voice, “you’ve made me very happy. Lady Rea, will you take my part? If I have no opportunity of explaining, will you do it for me? I am very blunt, I know—recollect I am a sailor; so forgive me if I tell you that since I first met Miss Rea, I have scarcely ceased to think about her.”
“I’m not cross with you for it,” said Lady Rea, “and I will tell Tiny; but you mustn’t ask me to interfere—I couldn’t think of doing so. There,” she whispered, “go and talk to her yourself.”
And she gave the young fellow so pleasant a look, as their eyes met, that he knew that if the matter depended upon her, Tiny Rea would be his wife.
But there was no opportunity as yet, for Tiny had been unwillingly led to the piano, vacated by Fin, Sir Felix being buttonholed by Sir Hampton, and Pratt taking his place, and talking to the sharp-tongued little maid in a way that made her exclaim—
“How solemn you are!”
“Hush!” said Pratt. “Listen! What a sweet voice!”
“Yes, Tiny can sing nicely,” replied Fin.
And they listened, as did Trevor, while, in a sweet, low voice, Tiny sang a pathetic old ballad with such pathos that a strangely sweet sense of melancholy crept over Trevor, and he stood gazing at her till the last note had ceased to thrill his nerves, when Vanleigh led her to her seat, and crossed to pay his court to Aunt Matty, awakened by the song.
“Now,” whispered Lady Rea, “go and tell her how it was.”
In strict obedience to the indiscreet advice, Trevor crossed to where Tiny was seated, offered his arm, and together they strolled into the handsome conservatory.