He pressed her hand again, and walked down the little front garden into the street. At the gate he paused and looked round at Poppy still standing in the lighted doorway; he looked round again a few yards down the street, and again farther on. The girl still stood there; in the momentary glimpse he had of her he fancied that her arm moved. He came back hastily, and Miss Tyrell regarded him with unmistakable surprise. “I thought—you beckoned me,” he stammered. “Thought I beckoned you?” repeated the girl. “I thought so,” murmured Fraser. “I beg your pardon,” and turned confusedly to go again. “So—I—did,” said a low voice. Fraser turned suddenly and faced her; then, as the girl lowered her eyes before his, he re-entered the house, and closing the door led her gently upstairs. “I didn’t like you to go like that,” said Miss Tyrell, in explanation, as they entered her room. 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—” “Until,” Fraser reminded her, fondly. “Until it began to get near,” said the girl; “then I knew.” She took her chair by the fire again, and Fraser, placing his beside it, they sat hand in hand discussing the future. It was a comprehensive future, and even included Captain Flower. “If he should be alive, after all,” said Poppy, with unmistakable firmness, “I shall still marry him if he wishes it.”