“I don’t care,” said Pratt, vehemently; and he arranged an imaginary wig, and waved some non-existent papers in the air. “Matters may be against my client—I mean Dick; but I’ll stake my life on his honour. I say Richard Trevor—Lloyd, as he calls himself now—is a true man of honour. Look how he gave up the estate! See how he yielded his pretensions to Miss Rea’s hand! And do you dare to tell me that this is a man who would stoop to a flirtation, or worse, when he owns to being cut up by the loss he has sustained? I say it’s impossible, and that the person who would dare to charge my cli—friend, Richard Trevor, alias Lloyd, with such duplicity is—”
“What?” said Fin, sharply. That one little word went through Frank Pratt. He cooled on the instant, the flush of excitement passed away, and, in a crestfallen manner, he groaned—
“That’s just like me. What a fool I am! Now you’ll be cross with me.”
“No, I shan’t,” said Fin, demurely. “I like it. It’s nice of you to stand up for your friend. I like a man to be a trump.”
Fin’s face was like scarlet as soon as she made this admission; and to qualify it, she hurriedly exclaimed—
“You may like him if you please; but till I see him cleared I shall hate him bitterly; and—and—and—I don’t know how he ought to be punished. He’ll be punished enough, though, by losing my sweet sister. Why didn’t you like her, instead of some one else?” she said, archly.
“Don’t ask me,” said Pratt. “I’m so happy, I shall do something foolish.”
“You haven’t anything to be happy about,” said Fin; “for I’m going to devote myself to Tiny, and if they force her into this hateful marriage, I mean to be a nun.”
“What marriage?” said Pratt.
“Why, with that Bluebeard of a captain.”