“Yes, I’ll make haste,” said Syd; and as soon as he was alone he began to dress hurriedly, with every thought of the blackest hue, and a sensation of misery and depression assailing him that was horrible.
He quite started as he went to the glass to brush his hair, for his face was white and drawn as if he had been ill. But there was very little more time for thought. The breakfast-bell rang, and he hurried down into the dining-room, glad to get off the staircase and through the hall, where one of the housemaids was still busy, and ready to look at him curiously as the boy who ran away from home—and came back.
Syd thought of that latter, for he knew but too well the servants might think it was brave—almost heroic and daring—to run away; to come back seemed very weak and small.
In those few moments Syd wished that ten years would glide away, and all the trouble belong to the past.
His father was in a chair by the window ready to look up sharply, and then let his eye fall upon the book he was reading without uttering a word.
Broughton came in bearing a tray with the coffee and a covered dish or two ready to place upon the table, then he left, and Syd was alone again with his father.
“What will he say?” thought the culprit; but he could not decide in which form his verbal castigation would come.
As he sat glancing at his father from time to time, Syd noted that there was a scratch upon his forehead, and that a bit of sticking-plaster was on one of his knuckles, proofs these of the severity of the past night’s struggle.
Then came a weary waiting interval before there was a deep-toned cough outside the door.
“Hah!” ejaculated the captain, rising from his seat as the door opened, and the old admiral stumped into the room.