“Annette is here,” said Tinman, who had been showing Etna’s tokens of insurgency.

He admired Annette.  Not till latterly had Herbert Fellingham been so true an admirer of Annette as Tinman was.  She looked sincere and she dressed inexpensively.  For these reasons she was the best example of womankind that he knew, and her enthusiasm for England had the sympathetic effect on him of obscuring the rest of the world, and thrilling him with the reassuring belief that he was blest in his blood and his birthplace—­points which her father, with his boastings of Gippsland, and other people talking of scenes on the Continent, sometimes disturbed in his mind.

“Annette,” said he, “I come requesting to converse with you in private.”

“If you wish it—­I would rather not,” she answered.

Tinman raised his head, as often at Helmstone when some offending shopwoman was to hear her doom.

He bent to her.  “I see.  Before your father, then!”

“It isn’t an agreeable bit of business, to me,” Van Diemen grumbled, frowning and shrugging.

“I have come, Annette, to ask you, to beg you, entreat—­before a third person—­laughing, Philip?”

“The wrong side of my mouth, my friend.  And I’ll tell you what:  we’re in for heavy seas, and I ’m not sorry you’ve taken the house on the beach off my hands.”

“Pray, Mr. Tinman, speak at once, if you please, and I will do my best.  Papa vexes you.”

“No, no,” replied Tinman.

He renewed his commencement.  Van Diemen interrupted him again.

“Hang your power over me, as you call it.  Eh, old Mart?  I’m a Deserter.  I’ll pay a thousand pounds to the British army, whether they punish me or not.  March me off tomorrow!”

“Papa, you are unjust, unkind.”  Annette turned to him in tears.

“No, no,” said Tinman, “I do not feel it.  Your father has misunderstood me, Annette.”

“I am sure he has,” she said fervently.  “And, Mr. Tinman, I will faithfully promise that so long as you are good to my dear father, I will not be untrue to my engagement, only do not wish me to name any day.  We shall be such very good dear friends if you consent to this.  Will you?”

Pausing for a space, the enamoured man unrolled his voice in lamentation:  “Oh!  Annette, how long will you keep me?”

“There; you’ll set her crying!” said Van Diemen.  “Now you can run upstairs, Netty.  By jingo!  Mart Tinman, you’ve got a bass voice for love affairs.”

“Annette,” Tinman called to her, and made her turn round as she was retiring.  “I must know the day before the end of winter.  Please.  In kind consideration.  My arrangements demand it.”

“Do let the girl go,” said Van Diemen.  “Dine with me tonight and I’ll give you a wine to brisk your spirits, old boy”

“Thank you.  When I have ordered dinner at home, I——­and my wine agrees with me,” Tinman replied.