“I cannot listen to you,” she said to Herbert, after listening longer than was prudent.  “If what you say of papa is true, I do not think he will remain in Crikswich, or even in England.  But I am sure the old friend we used, to speak of so much in Australia has not wilfully betrayed him.”

Herbert would have had to say, “Look on us two!” to proceed in his baffled wooing; and the very ludicrousness of the contrast led him to see the folly and shame of proposing it.

Van Diemen came down to breakfast looking haggard and restless.  “I have ’nt had my morning’s walk—­I can’t go out to be hooted,” he said, calling to his daughter for tea, and strong tea; and explaining to Herbert that he knew it to be bad for the nerves, but it was an antidote to bad champagne.

Mr. Herbert Fellingham had previously received an invitation on behalf of a sister of his to Crikswich.  A dull sense of genuine sagacity inspired him to remind Annette of it.  She wrote prettily to Miss Mary Fellingham, and Herbert had some faint joy in carrying away the letter of her handwriting.

“Fetch her soon, for we sha’n’t be here long,” Van Diemen said to him at parting.  He expressed a certain dread of his next meeting with Mart Tinman.

Herbert speedily brought Mary Fellingham to Elba, and left her there.  The situation was apparently unaltered.  Van Diemen looked worn, like a man who has been feeding mainly on his reflections, which was manifest in his few melancholy bits of speech.  He said to Herbert:  “How you feel a thing when you are found out!” and, “It doesn’t do for a man with a heart to do wrong!” He designated the two principal roads by which poor sinners come to a conscience.  His own would have slumbered but for discovery; and, as he remarked, if it had not been for his heart leading him to Tinman, he would not have fallen into that man’s power.

The arrival of a young lady of fashionable appearance at Elba was matter of cogitation to Mrs. Cavely.  She was disposed to suspect that it meant something, and Van Diemen’s behaviour to her brother would of itself have fortified any suspicion.  He did not call at the house on the beach, he did not invite Martin to dinner, he was rarely seen, and when he appeared at the Town Council he once or twice violently opposed his friend Martin, who came home ruffled, deeply offended in his interests and his dignity.

“Have you noticed any difference in Annette’s treatment of you, dear?” Mrs. Cavely inquired.

“No,” said Tinman; “none.  She shakes hands.  She asks after my health.  She offers me my cup of tea.”

“I have seen all that.  But does she avoid privacy with you?”

“Dear me, no!  Why should she?  I hope, Martha, I am a man who may be confided in by any young lady in England.”

“I am sure you may, dear Martin.”

“She has an objection to name the . . . the day,” said Martin. 
“I have informed her that I have an objection to long engagements. 
I don’t like her new companion:  She says she has been presented at Court. 
I greatly doubt it.”