"My dearest uncle! this—this is an unexpected pleasure!"
"Lyndis Villiers—you wretched woman."
"You are twenty minutes behind the times, Sir John," interrupted Roscoria, stepping in front of the lady. "Lyndis is Mrs. Roscoria."
"Have you married her?" gasped the admiral, still too much done for even to swear.
"I—I—did—I have. Oh, Rodda!" appealed the bridegroom, as the curate came up with Tregurtha, "fetch the admiral the certificate, and beg him to be calm for the sake of Lyndis!"
It was evident that the admiral was in great perplexity. He saw he was too late.
"And you permitted this, you scoundrel!" he roared, turning upon Tregurtha with fury. Richard flushed up; he had been afraid of this. He simply saluted and said, humbly:
"I can only ask your pardon, sir; we have all behaved very badly."
"Ha! yes, my niece Rosetta knows a scamp when she sees one. Confound you, sir!" and the admiral turned his back upon his shamefaced subordinate. He confronted Roscoria, and this time with a peculiar expression of malicious gratification under his rage. After all, when your next-door neighbor has run away with your niece, there is a unique joy in the thought of how he shall reap the whirlwind. Sir John put up his eye-glass and surveyed the husband of his niece from head to foot with a smile.
"Well," said Roscoria, with an air of buoyant courtesy, which passed but poorly with his stammering, "I'm awfully sorry we have brought you so far after us—but—since you are here—would you?—may we request the honor?—we have ordered breakfast at the Red Lion."