Fraser regarded her steadfastly and her eyes smiled at him. He drew her towards him and kissed her, and Miss Tyrell, trembling with something which might have been indignation, hid her face on his shoulder.
For a long time, unless certain foolish ejaculations of Fraser’s might count as conversation, they stood silent; then Poppy, extricating herself from his arm, drew back and regarded him seriously.
“It is not right,” she said, slowly; “you forget.”
“It is quite right,” said Fraser; “it is as right as anything can be.”
Poppy shook her head. “It has been wrong all along,” she said, soberly, “and Captain Flower is dead in consequence. I never intended to go on the Golden Cloud, but I let him go. And now he’s dead. He only went to be near me, and while he was drowning I was going out with you. I have been very wicked.”
Fraser protested, and, taking her hand, drew her gently towards him again.
“He was very good to my father,” said Poppy, struggling faintly. “I don’t think I can.”
“You must,” said Fraser, doggedly; “I’m not going to lose you now. It is no good looking at me like that. It is too late.”
He kissed her again, secretly astonished at his own audacity, and the high-handed way in which he was conducting things. Mixed with his joy was a half-pang, as he realised that he had lost his fear of Poppy Tyrell.
“I promised my father,” said the girl, presently. “I did not want to get married, but I did not mind so much Until—”