Suddenly a noise was heard. “Stop! stop!” cried the voice of John Raikes. “When a lady and gentleman are talking together, sir, do you lean your long ears over them—ha?”
Looking round, Evan beheld Laxley a step behind, and Jack rushing up to him, seizing his collar, and instantly undergoing ignominious prostration for his heroic defence of the privacy of lovers.
“Stand aside”; said Laxley, imperiously. “Rosey so you’ve come for me. Take my arm. You are under my protection.”
Another forlorn “Is it true?” Rose cast toward Evan with her eyes. He wavered under them.
“Did you receive my letter?” he demanded of Laxley.
“I decline to hold converse with you,” said Laxley, drawing Rose’s hand on his arm.
“You will meet me to-day or to-morrow?”
“I am in the habit of selecting my own company.”
Rose disengaged her hand. Evan grasped it. No word of farewell was uttered. Her mouth moved, but her eyes were hard shut, and nothing save her hand’s strenuous pressure, equalling his own, told that their parting had been spoken, the link violently snapped.
Mr. John Raikes had been picked up and pulled away by Polly. She now rushed to Evan: “Good-bye, and God bless you, dear Mr. Harrington. I’ll find means of letting you know how she is. And he shan’t have her, mind!”