“No, no! I won’t begin that,” said the captain, who had fibre enough left in him to know that a bill was the first plunge into an unknown region of financial difficulty. “If you’re bent on ruining me in any case, for heaven’s sake do it at once and have done with it. Remember, you bring down more than me. Whatever I may be, they don’t deserve it.”
“For their sake, then, give me the bill. Bless you, any one can put his hand to paper. Consider yourself lucky I don’t insist on taking it out in hard cash.”
It was no use arguing or protesting with a man like this. The captain flung himself miserably into a chair and scrawled out the ill-omened document.
Ratman snatched it up with a grunt of triumph.
“That’s more like,” said he. “What’s the use of all that fuss? Plenty of things can happen in a month. Order the dogcart in half an hour.”
The abrupt departure of Captain Oliphant’s guest might have excited more remark than it did, had not another departure from Maxfield that same day thrown it somewhat into the shade.
True to her promise, or rather threat, Miss Rosalind had packed up her things and had them transported to the Vicarage.
It was not without a pang that she uprooted herself from her surroundings in Maxfield, or bore the protests of Roger, the tears of Jill, and the chaff of Tom for her desertion.
“It’s not that you’re not all awfully kind,” said she to the first that afternoon, when the party was assembled in his room. “You are too kind—that’s why I’m going.”
“If a little of the opposite treatment would induce you to stay,” said Roger, “I’d gladly try it. Don’t you think it’s a little unkind of her to go when we all want her to stay—eh, Armstrong?”