"You—you—you graceless villain, you," cried the commodore in a rage—"to think that I had such confidence in you, sir; defended you upon all occasions, sir; refused to believe in your villainy, sir; refused to close my doors against you, sir. Yes, sir; and should have continued to do so, but for last night's affair."
"Last night's affair! I protest, sir, I do not in the least understand you?"
"Oh! you don't. You don't understand that after the lecture last evening, in leaving the place, Jacquelina thrust her arm through yours—no; I mean through Grim's, mistaking him for you, and said—what she never would have said, had there not been an understanding between you."
Thurston's face was now the picture of astonishment and perplexity. The commodore seemed to mistake it for a look of consternation and detected guilt, for he continued:
"And now, sir, I suppose you understand what is to follow. Do you see that door? It leads straight into the hall, which leads directly through the front portal out into the lawn, and on to the highway—that is your road, sir. Good-morning."
And the commodore thumped down his stick and left the room—the image of righteous indignation.
Thurston nodded, smiled slightly, drew his tablets from his pocket, tore a leaf out, took his pencil, laid the paper upon the corner of the mantel-piece, wrote a few lines, folded the note, and concealed it in his hand as the door opened, and admitted Mrs. Waugh, Marian and Jacquelina. There was a telegraphic glance between the elder lady and the young man.
That of Mrs. Waugh said:
"Do have pity on the fools, and go, Thurston."
That of Thurston said: