Here Throckmorton smiled.
“For your age, that is—”
The major frowned slightly.
“They all like you—even little Jacqueline.”
To save his life, Throckmorton could not prevent a flush from rising to his face, which he hated; for the emotions of forty-four are infinitely ridiculous to twenty-two. But it was just as well to have things settled then. A queer glitter, too, showing understanding, had come into Jack’s eyes.
“I may say to you,” said Throckmorton, after a little pause, “that you would do well to be guarded in your references to Miss Temple. She has promised to marry me.”
They had finished breakfast by that time, and were about to separate for the morning. Jack got up, and Throckmorton noticed his handsome young face paled a little. He had not escaped Jacqueline’s spell any more than Throckmorton and Freke; but it was not an overmastering spell, and in his heart he loved his father with a manly affection that he never thought of putting into words, but which was stronger than any other emotion. He walked up to Throckmorton and shook hands with him, laughing, but with a nervousness in his laugh, an abashed look on his face, that told the whole story to Throckmorton’s keen eye.
“I congratulate you, sir. She is a—a—beautiful girl—and—and—I hope you will be very happy.”