“I want to have a few minutes’ talk with you, Miss Tyrell,” he said, nervously.
The girl looked up at him. “Yes,” she said, gravely.
“I mean alone,” continued the other, marvelling at his hardihood; “it’s private.”
He lowered his voice from a shout to its normal tone as Emma Wheeler in self-defence opened the door and drove the small fry out.
“I’ve not got my rooms now,” said the girl, quietly.
“Well, my dear—” began the dock-foreman.
“Don’t interfere, father,” said Mrs. Wheeler somewhat sharply. “I’m sure Mr. Fraser needn’t mind saying anything before us. It’s nothing he’s ashamed of, I’m sure.”
“Certainly not,” said Fraser, sternly, “but it’s quite private for all that. Will you put your hat on and come out a little way, Miss Tyrell?”
“That I’m sure she won’t,” said the energetic Mrs. Wheeler. “She’s that particular she won’t even go out with Bob, and they’re like brother and sister almost. Will she, Bob?”
Mr. Bob Wheeler received the appeal somewhat sullenly, and in a low voice requested his parent not to talk so much. Fraser, watching Poppy closely, saw with some satisfaction a tinge of colour in her cheek, and what in any other person he would have considered a very obstinate appearance about her shapely chin.