“Bless you—bless you!” cried Lady Drelincourt with effusion. “I could embrace you, you brave and gallant man, but—but—not now.”
“No, no—not now. Lady Drelincourt, let me assist you to your chair. Morton,” he whispered, “you’re like a scarecrow: quick, be off. You dog, if you mind me now, your fortune’s made.”
“Oh, is it, father? Well, I’m precious glad. I say, isn’t it cold?”
“Yes: quick—home, and change your things. Stop; where are you going?”
“Down below, to fetch the dabs.”
“Damn the dabs, sir,” whispered the Master of the Ceremonies excitedly; “you’ll spoil the effect. Run, sir, run!”
The youth hesitated a moment and then started and ran swiftly towards the cliff, amidst a shrill burst of cheers, the ladies fluttering their handkerchiefs, and fisherman Dick Miggles wishing he had been that there boy.
“Denville—dear Denville,” said her ladyship, “how proud you must be of such a son!”
“The idol of my life, dear Lady Drelincourt,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, arranging her dress in the bath-chair. “Shall I carry the poor dog?”
“No, no—no, no, my darling Titi!” cried the lady, to his great relief. “Thomas, take me home quickly,” she said, as the wet dog nestled in her crape lap and uttered a few snuffles of satisfaction. “Quick, or Titi will take cold Denville, see me safely home. My nerves are gone.”