"When I 'd read this letter, I taxed him with it," said Lord Otford, "and he owned up. He came here last Saturday: met the damned little French gel—"
"Jack!" roared the Admiral, flaring up.
"I'll withdraw 'damned.' Sat an hour in this infernal what-d'-ye-call-it, and thinks he 's in love with her." Sir Peter was about to speak. "Don't interrupt!—You know the Sayles when their blood 's up. My blood was up. Jack's confounded blood was up. You can imagine the scene we had. He's as pig-headed and obstinate as—as—"
"As his father," put in Sir Peter.
"Don't interrupt!" roared Lord Otford. "He's thrown over Caroline Thring—won't hear of her." Sir Peter chuckled. "The utmost I could get out of him was that he 'd wait a week to make sure of what he calls his mind."
"Aha!" said Sir Peter, delighted.
"Mind! Puppy! All the week he's gone about like a bear with a sore head! Had the impudence to refuse to speak to me! This morning he had the impudence to speak! And what d' ye think he said?"
"Serves ye right, whatever it was!" cried Sir Peter.
Lord Otford didn't hear him. "He said, 'The week 's up, and I 'm going to Pomander Walk!'"
"Good lad!" roared Sir Peter, slapping his thigh, and breaking into a loud guffaw.