Then one autumn afternoon, as he was walking home across Saffrons Croft through rustling gold-drifts beneath the elms, he met Mrs. Trupp coming down the hill silvery-haired, gracious, and smiling in upon his gloom.
"Well, dreamer," she said. "Not hard to know whose son you are!"
Ernie looked up, and made one of those lightning resolutions of his.
"Beg pardon, 'm," he said. "Could I come and see you this evening?"
"You could, Ernie," answered the other. "And about time too!"
That evening, when the blinds were drawn, and the lamps lit, Ernie found himself alone with his godmother in the long-windowed drawing-room, telling his story.
Mrs. Trupp, whom cruelty, in its manifold forms, could rouse to a white-hot anger that surprised those who did not know her, listened quivering and with downward eyes.
"What was the man's name?" she asked at last.
"Captain Royal," Ernie answered without hesitation.
She nodded.