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.
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