And before the curate knew what was coming, the Major took him by the collar of his coat, led him from the room, and--let us say, assisted him down the stairs. The front door was flung open, and, in broad daylight, the astonished neighbours saw the Rev. John Roland, M.A., of Caius College, Cambridge, what is commonly called "kicked-out," of Major Clifford's house.
CHAPTER IV
[THE MAJOR'S SORROW]
After the Major had disposed of his offensive visitor, he went upstairs to think the matter over. It began to suggest itself to him that, upon the whole, he had not, perhaps, been so kind and gentle as Miss Maynard had advised. But then, as he phrased it, the fellow had been so confoundedly impertinent.
"Bully me, sir! Bully me!" cried the Major, taking a strong view of Mr. Roland's, under the circumstances, exceedingly mild deportment. "And the fellow said I wasn't sober! I never was so insulted in my life."
The Major felt the insinuation keenly, because--for prudential reasons only--he was rigidly abstemious.
When Miss Maynard returned, she was met at the door by the respected housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips, and her own maid, Mary Ann.
"Oh, Miss," began Mrs. Phillips, directly the door was opened, "such goings on I never see in all my life--never in all my days. I thought I should have fainted."
Miss Maynard turned pale. She thought of the mild, if aggravating, Spooner, and was fearful that her affectionate relative might in some degree have forgotten her emphasised directions.
"Oh, Miss Em!" chimed in Mary Ann. "Whatever will come to us I don't know. If the police were to come and lock us all up, I shouldn't be surprised. Not a bit, I shouldn't."