"Uncle Randolph," he said suddenly, "I suppose it's pretty late to say anything of the sort, but—but something that happened on the way over made me see that—made me see what a blackguard I'd been to steal the Merle as I did. I don't think apologies are much good, anyway, especially after you've had all the fun. It's a good deal like trying to sneak out of consequences, but I—I really mean most sincerely that I'm beastly sorry."
Mr. Drake did not move a muscle of his keen, well-bred face, but into his eyes came some faint glint of humor which made Jack stop in confusion.
"Are you done, sir?" his uncle asked.
"I'm not quite through, sir," Jack said in a sort of desperate humility. "I—I—that is"—He floundered for a moment, and then went on with a rush, "I may as well explain that I'm not sorry one way; that is—I can't honestly say I wish I hadn't taken the Merle, for I—you know I'm engaged to Miss Marchfield, and I never could have been except—that is, unless I'd got over there. I can't be sorry for that."
"No?" queried Mr. Drake, raising his brows. "You are not thinking, perhaps, what is the price I have paid for the privilege of congratulating you on this engagement. I have no son, and from the day your father died I have made one of you. You deceive me, humiliate me in the eyes of my guests, make me the joke of my club, leave me high and dry at North Haven"—
Sad and sorry as Jack really was, he could not help the impulse that made him see the chance, and murmur under his breath,—
"I didn't think anything could be high and dry in the sort of fog we went off in."
His uncle gave a slight cough, as if he were strangling an inclination to laugh, and then went on in the same even voice as before.
"Of course I can't expect you to have any feeling about the way I felt about your tricking me, any more than of the anxiety I went through when the Merle disappeared, and I didn't know whether you were on top of the sea or under it."
"I—I never thought of that," stammered Jack, feeling his cheeks grow hot.