“Miss Rea,” said Trevor, plunging at once in medias res, as Tiny made one or two constrained replies to his remarks, “I have been explaining to Lady Rea what trouble I am in.”
“Trouble, Mr Trevor?” said Tiny, coldly.
“Yes: how I had ventured to hope that I had won the friendship of two ladies, and with the vanity, or weakness, of a sailor, I trusted that that friendship would ripen into something warmer.”
“Mr Trevor,” said Tiny, her voice trembling, “I must request—”
“Tiny, dear Tiny,” cried Trevor, passionately, “I may have but a few moments to speak to you. Don’t misjudge me, I have explained all to Lady Rea, and she will tell you. If I am mad and vain in hoping, forgive me—I cannot help it, for I love you dearly; and this that I see—these attentions—these visits—madden me.”
“Mr Trevor, pray—pray don’t say more!” exclaimed Tiny, glancing in the direction of the drawing-room.
“I must—I cannot help it,” he whispered, passionately. “Tell me my love is without hope, and I will go back to sea and trouble you no more; but give me one little word, tell me if only that we are friends again, and that you will not misjudge me, or think of me as you did the other day in the wood. Tell me—confess this: you thought me wrong?”
“I had no right to judge you, Mr Trevor,” said Tiny, in a trembling voice; “but—but my sister—and I—”
“Tiny,” whispered Trevor, catching her land in his, “my darling, I could not have a thought that you might not read. Give me one word—one look. Heaven bless you for this.”
Young men are so thoughtless, so full of the blind habits of the sand-hiding ostrich at such times, and so wrapped up was Richard Trevor, sailor and natural unspoiled man, in the soft, gentle look directed at him from Tiny’s timid, humid eyes, that, regardless of the fact that they were close to the drawing-room, the chances are that he might have gone farther than kissing the little blue-veined hand he held in his, had not, from behind a clump of camellias, a harsh voice suddenly exclaimed—