"My dear fellows, I am heartily obliged to you, and now let me propose my toast. (By the way, Tregurtha, have you considered the pungency of the fact that the Greeks use the same word 'trouble' and 'wife's relations?') Where was I? Oh, yes; allow me to propose the health and good-humor and indemnity from chill, of my revered and feared uncle-in-law. Admiral Sir John Villiers, K. C. B."
"Poor old fellow," said Tregurtha, reflectively; "I hear him stamping about overhead. I hope he has got all he wants; I shall go and take him a stiff glass of grog."
He did so, and returned with a smiling but battered expression.
"Is he any cooler?" anxiously inquired the bridegroom.
"Cooler? Molten lead—the torrid zone—a powder-magazine in full explosion—the furnaces of Nebuchadnezzar—are about as cool as is the admiral at this moment. I should like to see you two clear out of this, lest he change his mind, and bring the whole population of Clovelly down upon you."
Lyndis paled visibly and rose.
"How ever did he know we were off?" she asked.
"Yes, how indeed?" demanded Tregurtha of his friend. Roscoria looked up and Roscoria looked down, and Roscoria finally admitted in a whispered aside:
"Lyndis was rather fluttered, Dick, and so I kissed her—by mistake—just under the admiral's window."