John Mellish approached the open window at which the ensign's widow was seated, and looked into the room. Aurora was not there. The long saloon seemed empty and desolate. The decorations of the temple looked cold and dreary, for the deity was absent.
"No one here!" exclaimed Mr. Mellish, disconsolately.
"No one here but me," murmured Mrs. Powell, with an accent of mild deprecation.
"But where is my wife, ma'am?"
He said those two small words, "my wife," with such a tone of resolute defiance, that Mrs. Powell looked up at him as he spoke, and thought, "He has seen the certificate."
"Where is Aurora?" repeated John.
"I believe that Mrs. Mellish has gone out."
"Gone out! where?"
"You forget, sir," said the ensign's widow reproachfully,—"you appear to forget your special request that I should abstain from all supervision of Mrs. Mellish's arrangements. Prior to that request, which I may venture to suggest was unnecessarily emphatic, I had certainly considered myself, as the humble individual chosen by Miss Floyd's aunt, and invested by her with a species of authority over the young lady's actions, in some manner responsible for——"
John Mellish chafed horribly under the merciless stream of long words, which Mrs. Powell poured upon his head.