“It’s rather soon after my death,” said Flower, thoughtfully; “she’s been driven into it by her mother, I expect. How is Poppy?”
Fraser told him.
“I couldn’t wish her in better hands, Jack,” said the other, heartily, when he had finished; “one of these days when she knows everything—at least, as much as I shall tell her—she’ll be as grateful to you as what I am.”
“You’ve come back just in time,” said Fraser, slowly; “another week, and you’d have lost her.”
“Lost her?” repeated Flower, staring.
“She’s going to New Zealand,” replied the other; “she’s got some relations there. She met an old friend of her father’s the other day, Captain Martin, master of the Golden Cloud, and he has offered her a passage. They sail on Saturday from the Albert Dock.”
Flower pushed the tankard from him, and regarded him in consternation.
“She mustn’t go,” he said, decisively.
Fraser shrugged his shoulders. “I tried to persuade her not to, but it was no use. She said there was nothing to stay in England for; she’s quite alone, and there is nobody to miss her.”
“Poor girl,” said Flower, softly, and sat crumbling his bread and gazing reflectively at a soda-water advertisement on the wall. He sat so long in this attitude that his companion also turned and studied it.