“Yes. Had Nancy not been here, I should have given him a taste of my mind; but she hates even the semblance of a quarrel. He had no right to say what he did.”
“What could it have meant?” murmured Lavinia.
“It meant my brother, I expect,” said Captain Fennel savagely, and, as Lavinia thought, with every appearance of truth. “But he has never been at Sainteville, so far as I know; the fellow is mistaken in that.”
“Does he pass under the name of Dangerfield?”
“Possibly. This is the first I’ve heard of it. He is an extravagant man, often in embarrassment from debt. There’s nothing worse against him.”
He did not say more; neither did Lavinia. They sat on in silence. The tall figure in the Scotch plaid disappeared from sight; the men in the harbour kept on disputing.
“How long are you going to stay here?” asked Nancy, turning towards her husband.
“I’m ready to go now,” he answered. And giving his arm to Nancy, they walked down the pier together.
Never a word to Lavinia; never a question put by him or by Nancy, if only to say, “Are you not coming with us?” It was ever so now. Nancy, absorbed in her husband, neglected her sister.
Lavinia sighed. She sat on a little while longer, and then took her departure.