Then he followed his sister out into the conservatory, where she made the before-mentioned remark, and Sir Hampton, turning port wine colour, caught his daughter by the wrist.
“Go to bed this instant!” he exclaimed, reverting in his rage to the punishment inflicted years before. “As to you, sir—”
“Excuse me, Sir Hampton,” said Trevor, boldly.
“Let me speak,” said Aunt Matty, with great dignity. “Hampton, this is neither the time nor the place to have words about the works of the wicked. I warned you, but you would not take heed. Valentina, you are not to go to bed, but to return to the drawing-room as if nothing had happened. Hampton, you must not disturb your other guests—the strangers sojourning in peace within your gates.”
At a time like this Aunt Matty was too much for Sir Hampton. She had girded herself as she would have termed it; and when Aunt Matty girded herself her words were like a strong solution of tracts, and she became a sort of moral watering-pot, with which she sprinkled the wicked and quenched their anger. Sir Hampton never so much as said “Er-rum!” at such times, and now seeing the wisdom of her words, he picked two or three flowers, and walked back into the drawing-room with Tiny, the poor girl trying hard to conceal her agitation.
Trevor was about to follow, but Aunt Matty stopped him.
“Sit down there, young man,” she said, severely.
“If you wish to speak to me, certainly,” said Trevor, politely; “but what I have to say must be to Sir Hampton, with all respect to you.”
“Sit down there for five minutes, young man, and then you can return.”
Trevor fumed—the position was so ridiculous; but he accepted it, glancing the while at his watch, and then fighting hard to preserve his gravity before the stiff figure in whose presence he sat. For, in spite of the annoyance, a feeling of joyous hilarity had come upon the offender against decorum: he knew that Tiny loved him, and doubtless a few words of explanation would be listened to when Sir Hampton was cool, and then all would come right.