The Admiral paced the room slowly, as if it were a quarter-deck. His grey beard lay upon his broad chest; his red weather-beaten countenance was heavy with thought.
"Look ye here," said he at length. "This is serious, and I take it seriously. I am tempted to call you a—jackanapes. As it is, I prefer to say—nothing, except this: you ought to be birched."
"I f-feel as if you were b-b-birching me."
His face relaxed.
"My boy, I'm sorry for you. You may not believe it, but when I was seventeen and in the Mediterranean squadron"—the Admiral's voice became reminiscent—"I had the doose of an affair. I suffered like any Romeo, and my Juliet was only eight-and—er—twenty! Well, sir, I fought and conquered, and so must you, by God!"
"I have f-f-fought, sir; and I am c-c-conquered."
"You're glib with your tongue. I daresay Betty thinks you a tremendous fellow."
"She thinks us—very s-s-silly."
"Us? Miriam Hazelby was right. The little baggage! A De Courcy from tip to toe already. Well, my boy, shake hands! You've made a clean breast of it, and I respect you for that. And you're in your salad days, too. So—no more! If you choose to sigh for the moon I can't prevent you. Good night."
Mark went home, humble as Uriah Heap. None the less, he made a tolerable dinner, and felt happy and hopeful after it. And that night he dreamed he was illustrious—a great soldier, a ruler amongst men. But, high though he climbed, aye, even to the Milky Way itself, where honours gleamed innumerable, he could not attain to the object of his dreams—the lovely Moon!