Once more James hesitated, but he obeyed. The band played a popular waltz; upon the beach below people were bathing; the sea displayed the many twinkling smile as the breeze kissed the lips of the wavelets.
"Jolly, isn't it?" said Posy.
"Very."
"But you don't look jolly, Mr. Miggott. You never do look very jolly. And I have wondered—why."
She looked straight into his eyes, smiling pleasantly, anxious to put him at ease, anxious also to peer beneath an impassive surface, to find out "things" concerning a good young man, whose goodness, apparently, had not brought with it a very delirious happiness.
"Shall I tell you?" he asked, in a voice that trembled oddly. "Shall I let myself go for once? Ought I?"
Posy glanced the length of the pier. Her mother was not in sight. She might not appear for half an hour.
"Yes; please tell me."
He told his tale so fluently that the uncharitable might hazard the conjecture that he had told it before, perhaps to Mabel Dredge. By hinting at this we have somewhat prejudiced the effect on the reader, who must bear in mind that Posy was too innocent and young to entertain such suspicions.
"I don't look jolly, Miss Quinney, because I don't feel jolly. Perhaps you think that a man ought to disguise his feelings when he's with a charming young lady. Well, I can't. I'm too honest. It was a shock just now meeting you, because you stand for everything I want and can't get."