In a glow of hot temper, to which the ascent of two pairs of stairs contributed something, the old Commodore burst into the room where his daughters were engaged unpacking. Sofas, tables, and chairs were already covered with articles of dress, rendering his progress a matter of very nice steering through the midst of them.
“Cram them in again,—stow them all away!” cried he; “we 're going back.”
“Back where?” asked the elder, in a tone of dignified resistance years of strong opposition had taught her.
“Back to Port-Graham, if you know such a place. I 've ordered the car round to the door, and I mean to be off in a quarter of an hour.”
“But why—what has happened? what's the reason for this?”
“The reason is that I 'm not going to be packed up in the top story, or given a bed in a barrack room. That fellow Raikes,—I 'll remember it to him next Christmas,—that fellow has gone and given the garden-house to that Mr. Maitland.”
“Oh, is that all?” broke in Miss Graham.
“All, all! Why, what more would you have? Did you expect that he had told me to brush his coat or fetch his hot water? What the d——l do you mean by 'all'?”
“Then why don't you take Mrs. Chetwyn's rooms? They are on this floor. She's going now. They are most comfortable, and have a south aspect: by the way she was just talking of Maitland; she knows all about him, and he is the celebrated Norman Maitland.”
“Ah, let us hear that. I want to unearth the fellow if I only knew how,” said he, taking a chair.