“Sir Mark!” gasped Stratton. “Ring again—a horrible mistake on your part.”
“What the deuce do you mean, sir? You come and propose for my niece’s hand—”
“No; no, Sir Mark,” cried the young man wildly.
“What! Why I’ve seen you attentive to her a score of times. I say again, what the deuce do you mean? Why—why—you were not talking about my own child?”
“My words all related to Miss Jerrold, Sir Mark,” said Stratton, now speaking in a voice full of despair. “I never imagined that you could possibly misunderstand me.”
“But, confound you, I did, sir. What the devil do you mean by blundering out such a lame tale as that?”
“Want me, uncle dear?” said Edie, entering the room.
“No, no, my dear. Run along upstairs. You’re not wanted. I have business with Mr Stratton here.”
Edie darted a frightened glance from the choleric, flushed countenance of her uncle to Stratton’s, which was almost white.
“Oh, poor Mr Stratton,” she thought as she drew back. “Then he did not know before.”