'Is it you, General?' he said.
'You know me, I hope,' said the old soldier sternly.
'Oh yes, perfectly. Would you be kind enough? Thank you,' as the General, who was reflecting that intending suicides did not generally preface their last exit with so natural a laugh as this of Tom's, relaxed his hold. 'Do you know, General, your hands are like iron?' Tom sprang to his feet as he spoke.
'Like iron are they?' he said. 'Well, they have had to do hard work in their time. But come, boy—seriously—I should like to know what you mean by it.'
'By what, General?'
'By being here at this extraordinary hour to begin with. I don't believe, myself, that you have been in bed all night.'
Tom looked sheepish. It would not quite have done to quote Shelley's couplet to the General, and there was absolutely no other reason to give for his presence in the garden save that 'the spirit in his feet had led him thither.'
'I am really very sorry——,' he began.
'Understand me,' interrupted the General, mollified by his penitence, but feeling bound to express his displeasure: 'I have no objection to see you either in the garden or in the house. I have begged you again and again to come and go as you please. Lady Elton has done the same. She has a strong regard for you, and so have I. But, sir, when you go in for extraordinary athletic performances, I must beg you to find another field than mine for the display of your talent. Also'—and here his very hair seemed to bristle with indignation—'to find another name than my daughter's to hang rhapsodies to. A very pretty little story would have got about if anyone but myself had been here. And,' he added as he turned away, 'there's too much talking as it is.'
The reddest of Grace's roses was scarcely as red as Tom's face when the General turned away from him.