For weeks her soft heart fought with her maidenly modesty, but at length her heart prevailed. She could not see her dear boy walk blindfold into danger. Whatever the consequences she must speak to him, warn him, stop him if necessary. But where and when and how was she to do so? To write was impossible (nobody knew what might become of a letter) and Victor had long discontinued his week-end visits to Ballamoar. One day the Deemster told her to prepare a room for the Governor who was coming to visit him, and seizing her opportunity she said, "And wouldn't it be nice to ask Victor to meet him, your Honour?" The Deemster paused for a moment, then bowed his head and answered, "Do as you please, Miss Curphey." Five minutes afterwards Janet was writing in hot haste to Ramsey. "He is to come on Saturday, dear, but mind you come on Friday, so that I may have you all to myself for a while before the great men take you from me." Victor came on Friday evening and found Janet alone, the Deemster being away for an important Court and likely to sleep the night in Douglas. She was in her own little sitting-room--a soft, cushiony chamber full of embroidered screens and pictures of himself as a child worked out in coloured silk. A tea-tray, ready laid, was on a table by her side, and she rose with a trembling cry as he bounded in and kissed her. Tea was a long but tremulous joy to her, and by the time it was over the darkness was gathering. The maid removed the tray and was about to bring in a lamp, but Janet, being artful, said: "No, Jane, not yet. It would be a pity to shut out this lovely twilight. Don't you think so, dear?" Victor agreed, not knowing what was coming, and for an hour longer they sat at opposite sides of the table, with their faces to the lawn, while the rooks cawed out their last congress, and the thrush sang its last song, and Janet talked on indifferent matters--whether Mrs. Quayle (his sleeping-out housekeeper) was making him comfortable at Ramsey, and if Robbie Creer should not be told to leave butter and fresh eggs for him on market-day. But when, the darkness having deepened, there was no longer any danger that Victor could see her face, Janet (trembling with fear of her nursling now that he had grown to be a man) plunged into her tragic subject. People were talking and talking. The Manx ones were terrible for talking. Really, it ought to be possible to put the law on people who talked and talked. "Who are they talking about now, Janet? Is it about me?" said Victor. "Well, yes .... yes, it's about you, dear." Oh, nothing serious, not to say serious! Just a few flighty girls boasting about the attentions he was paying them. And then older people, who ought to know better, gibble-gabbling about the dangers to young women--as if the dangers to young men were not greater, sometimes far greater.