“Thankye,” he said shortly; but Julia did not leave him, only stood looking down at the wrinkles of age and annoyance in the well-bred face.
“Well!” he said, “what are you waiting for, my child?” His voice was a little softer as the wreaths of smoke rose in the soft southern air.
“I want to talk to you,” she said, looking at him wistfully.
“Sit down, then. Ah, there’s no chair, and—where is our gay young officer to fetch one?”
Julia did not answer, but gazed up in his face as she seated herself upon the deck by his low lounge chair.
“Why do you speak to me so unkindly?” she said, with a naïve innocency of manner that made the old man wince and cease smoking.
“Unkindly?” he said at last.
“Yes,” said Julia. “You have been so different. You are not speaking to me now as you used.”
The old man frowned, looked from the upturned face at his side to where Mrs Hallam was gazing out to sea, and back again.
“Because I’m growing old and am chilly, and pettish, and jealous, my dear,” he said at last warmly. “Julia!” he cried searchingly, “tell me; do you love this Lieutenant Eaton?”