“I—oh, will you give me my gloves, please, before I forget them?” said Miss Tyrell, coldly.
It was Fraser’s turn to colour, and he burnt a rich crimson as he fished them out.
“I was going to take care of them for you,” he said, awkwardly. “I came to look after a pipe I thought I’d left here.”
“I saw you taking care of them,” was the reply.
There was a pause, during which Miss Tyrell took a seat and, folding her hands in her lap, gazed at him with the calm gaze which comes of perfect misdoing and the feminine determination not to own up to it. The room was no longer shabby, and Fraser was conscious of a strange exaltation.
“I understood that you had given notice in the City,” he said, slowly; “but I’m very glad that you didn’t.”
Miss Tyrell shook her head, and stooping down adjusted the fire-stove ornament.
“Didn’t you intend to go?” repeated the tactful seaman.
“I’d left it open,” said Miss Tyrell, thoughtfully; “I hadn’t definitely accepted Captain Martin’s invitation. You jump at conclusions so, but of course when I found that Captain Flower had shipped before the mast for my sake, why, I had to go.”
“So you had,” said Fraser, staring.