"There you are, then!" declared the Doge victoriously, as he rose, slipping a rubber band with a forbidding snap over the last book. "And this is all stupid personal stuff—but mine own!"
There was an unconscious sigh of weariness as he took up the thumbed leather volumes. He was haggard. "Mine own" had given him no pleasure that evening. All the years of his life seemed to rest heavily upon him for a silent moment. Mary feared that she had hurt him by her request.
"You have read so much you will scarcely do any writing to-night," she ventured.
"Yes, I will add a few more lines—the spirit is in me—a few more days to the long record," he said, absently, then, after a pause, suddenly, with a kind of suppressed force vibrating in his voice: "Well, our Sir Chaps has gone."
"As unceremoniously as he came," she answered.
"It was terrible the way he broke Nogales's wrist!" remarked the
Doge narrowly.
"Terrible!" she assented as she folded her work, her head bent.
"Gone, and doubtless for good!" he continued, still watching her sharply.
"Very likely!" she answered carelessly without looking up. "His vagarious playtime for this section is over."
"Just it! Just it!" the Doge exclaimed happily.