“No,” replied Barron quickly, “but that will be your home.”
“Trinidad,” said Myra thoughtfully; “so many thousand miles away.”
“Bah! what are a few thousand miles now? A journey in a floating hotel to a place where you can telegraph to your father’s door—instantaneous messages, and receive back the replies.”
“But still so far,” said Myra dreamily.
“Try and drive away such thoughts, dearest,” whispered Barron. “I shall be there. And besides, Sir Mark will run over and see us; and Edith, too, with her husband.”
Myra’s manner changed. The dreaminess passed away and she looked quickly in her betrothed’s eyes.
“Yes, I always thought so,” he said merrily. “’Tis love that makes the world go round. That Mr Stratton, your old friend, is below. Don’t you understand?”
“No,” said Myra quietly, “not quite.”
“I think you do, dearest,” he said, trying to pass his arm round her, but she shrank gently away.
“Very well,” he said, kissing her hand, “I can wait. You will not always be so cold. Mr Stratton came to see your father on business, looking the lover from head to foot. I was sent up to you, and soon after our dear little Edie is summoned to the library. Come, don’t look so innocent, darling. You do understand.”