Mr. Nugent nodded. His face was perfectly grave, but the joke was beginning to prey upon his vitals in a manner which brooked no delay.
“I thought everybody knew it,” he said. “We have never disguised the fact. Her husband died twenty years ago last——”
“Twenty” said his suddenly enlightened listener. “Who?—What?”
Mr. Nugent, incapable of reply, put his head on the table and beat the air frantically with his hand, while gasping sobs rent his tortured frame.
“Dear—aunt,” he choked, “how pleas—pleased she'd be if—she knew. Don't look like that, Hardy. You'll kill me.”
“You seem amused,” said Hardy, between his teeth.
“And you'll be Kate's uncle,” said Mr. Nugent, sitting up and wiping his eyes. “Poor little Kate.”
He put his head on the table again. “And mine,” he wailed. “Uncle jemmy!—will you tip us half-crowns, nunky?”
Mr. Hardy's expression of lofty scorn only served to retard his recovery, but he sat up at last and, giving his eyes a final wipe, beamed kindly upon his victim.
“Well, I'll do what I can for you,” he observed, “but I suppose you know Kate's off for a three months' visit to London to-morrow?”