“Yes, Mark, calm,” whispered his sister, clinging to him firmly. “Is it the act of an officer and a gentleman to behave like this?”
“You don’t know—you cannot feel as I do,” he raged.
“For Myra’s sake,” whispered Miss Jerrold quickly; and the old man made an effort and calmed down.
“Let him explain then. Let him say what it means. A public insult. To be degraded like this. And after what is past.”
Meanwhile Stratton was looking wildly about him. The sweat stood in great drops upon his haggard face, and he trembled violently, though it was apparent to his friend that he was fighting hard to be composed.
Guest turned to Sir Mark.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “There must, as I have said, be good reasons for poor Stratton’s actions. Pray be patient with him. You see, sir—you see, Miss Jerrold, he is ill and suffering. Now, Stratton, for Heaven’s sake speak out. You must explain. Tell Sir Mark what it is.”
“Take them away,” said Stratton in a hoarse whisper; “take them away.”
“Yes, yes, but say something. What is it—some sudden attack? Come, man, don’t look at me in that ghastly way; are you ill?”
“No—no. I don’t know,” faltered Stratton.