“Well, you know, sailors are a rough lot; one can’t expect very fine feelings from them. At all events, there isn’t such a set of cups in the world. They have never been used before, and I don’t know when I shall care to use them again.”
“Except on a similar auspicious occasion,” whispered the bachelor uncle in Pinkie’s pretty ear.
She made some audaciously saucy reply without half hearing him; for her eyes were riveted upon her father, who was at the moment reading a telegram which had just been handed him by a servant.
Pinkie saw that he grew white to the lips; then, recovering himself with an effort, “It’s all right,” he said; “no answer,” and tossed off his cup of coffee.
“This tiresome business!” sighed Mrs. Dare; “it never lets one alone, day or night, Mr. Randolph. I’m sure I expect it will kill Mr. Dare some day; I often tell him he’ll have nervous prostration if he don’t take care.”
“You need not fear, my dear madam,” returned her host grimly; “Mr. Dare has no nerves to be prostrated. He is entirely safe!”
“Though it might be better for some of us,” he added some moments later, “if Dare had been smothered in his cradle.”
This remark was made in the library, whither Mr. Randolph had retired for a few moments, and whither he had found means to summon his son Frank.
“That’s pretty rough on my prospective father-in-law, governor,” said the young man gayly; “where would the fair Virginia have been in that case, eh?”
“You’ve got to look sharp if you want to marry Virginia Dare,” said his father. “I did think a marriage between you two would—but I suppose he thinks it hasn’t come to that yet. Read this telegram from Fletcher, will you? There’s a couple of millions gone out of my pocket and yours.”