“Let the women have their trunks!”
When, on the evening of the ball, Agatha appeared at the door of her mother’s cabin, that good lady’s face fell.
“What, dear? Your old black!”
“Yes, dear, my old black,” replied the dutiful daughter. She was arranging a small bouquet of violets in the front of her dress - a bouquet she had found in her cabin when she went to dress. Luke had, no doubt, sent ashore for them at Gibraltar--and there was something of the unknown, the vaguely possible, in his manner of placing them on her tiny dressing-table, without a word of explanation, which appealed to her jaded imagination.
There was some suggestion of recklessness about Agatha, which her mother almost detected--something which had never been suggested in the subtler element of London drawing-room. The girl spoke in a short, sharp way which was new to the much-snubbed rear-commander. Agatha still had this when Luke asked her for a dance.
“Yes,” she answered curtly, handing him the card and avoiding his eyes.
He stepped back to take advantage of the light of a swinging hurricane lamp, and leant against the awning which had been closed in all round.
“How many may I have?” he asked.
She continued to look anywhere except in his direction. Then quite suddenly she gave a little laugh.
“All.”