At Sunwich Port, Complete

“Late as usual, Sam,” said the girl, sinking into a chair. Then she caught sight of Hardy, who was standing by the door.

“It’s a long time since you and I met, Miss Nugent,” he said, bowing.

“Mr. Hardy?” said the girl, doubtfully.

“Yes, miss,” interposed Mr. Wilks, anxious to explain his position. “He called in to see me; quite a surprise to me it was. I ‘ardly knowed him.”

“The last time we three met,” said Hardy, who to his host’s discomfort had resumed his chair, “Wilks was thrashing me and you were urging him on.”

Kate Nugent eyed him carefully. It was preposterous that this young man should take advantage of a boy and girl acquaintance of eleven years before—and such an acquaintance!—in this manner. Her eyes expressed a little surprise, not unmixed with hauteur, but Hardy was too pleased to have them turned in his direction at all to quarrel with their expression.

“You were a bit of a trial in them days,” said Mr. Wilks, shaking his head. “If I live to be ninety I shall never forget seeing Miss Kate capsized the way she was. The way she–”

“How is your cold?” inquired Miss Nugent, hastily.

“Better, miss, thankee,” said Mr. Wilks.

“Miss Nugent has forgotten and forgiven all that long ago,” said Hardy.

“Quite,” assented the girl, coldly; “one cannot remember all the boys and girls one knew as a child.”

“Certainly not,” said Hardy. “I find that many have slipped from my own memory, but I have a most vivid recollection of you.”

Miss Nugent looked at him again, and an idea, strange and incredible, dawned slowly upon her. Childish impressions are lasting, and Jem Hardy had remained in her mind as a sort of youthful ogre. He sat before her now a frank, determined-looking young Englishman, in whose honest eyes admiration of herself could not be concealed. Indignation and surprise struggled for supremacy.

“It’s odd,” remarked Mr. Wilks, who had a happy knack at times of saying the wrong thing, “it’s odd you should ‘ave ‘appened to come just at the same time as Miss Kate did.”

“It’s my good fortune,” said Hardy, with a slight bow. Then he cocked a malignant eye at the innocent Mr. Wilks, and wondered at what age men discarded the useless habit of blushing. Opposite him sat Miss Nugent, calmly observant, the slightest suggestion of disdain in her expression. Framed in the queer, high-backed old chair which had belonged to Mr. Wilks’s grandfather, she made a picture at which Jem Hardy continued to gaze with respectful ardour. A hopeless sense of self-depreciation possessed him, but the idea that Murchison should aspire to so much goodness and beauty made him almost despair of his sex. His reverie was broken by the voice of Mr. Wilks.

“A quarter to eight?” said that gentleman in-credulously; “it can’t be.”

“I thought it was later than that,” said Hardy, simply.

Mr. Wilks gasped, and with a faint shake of his head at the floor abandoned the thankless task of giving hints to a young man who was too obtuse to see them; and it was not until some time later that Mr. Hardy, sorely against his inclinations, gave his host a hearty handshake and, with a respectful bow to Miss Nugent, took his departure.

“Fine young man he’s growed,” said Mr. Wilks, deferentially, turning to his remaining visitor; “greatly improved, I think.”

Miss Nugent looked him over critically before replying. “He seems to have taken a great fancy to you,” she remarked.

Mr. Wilks smiled a satisfied smile. “He came to ask my advice about business,” he said, softly. “He’s ‘eard two or three speak o’ me as knowing a thing or two, and being young, and just starting, ‘e came to talk it over with me. I never see a young man so pleased and ready to take advice as wot he is.”

“He is coming again for more, I suppose?” said Miss Nugent, carelessly.

Mr. Wilks acquiesced. “And he asked me to go over to his ‘ouse to smoke a pipe with ‘im on Tuesday,” he added, in the casual manner in which men allude to their aristocratic connections. “He’s a bit lonely, all by himself.”

Miss Nugent said, “Indeed,” and then, lapsing into silence, gave little occasional side-glances at Mr. Wilks, as though in search of any hidden charms about him which might hitherto have escaped her.

At the same time Mr. James Hardy, walking slowly home by the edge of the sea, pondered on further ways and means of ensnaring the affection of the ex-steward.

CHAPTER VII

The anticipations of Mr. Wilks were more than realized on the following Tuesday. From the time a trim maid showed him into the smoking-room until late at night, when he left, a feted and honoured guest, with one of his host’s best cigars between his teeth, nothing that could yield him any comfort was left undone. In the easiest of easy chairs he sat in the garden beneath the leafy branches of apple trees, and undiluted wisdom and advice flowed from his lips in a stream as he beamed delightedly upon his entertainer.

Their talk was mainly of Sunwich and Sunwich people, and it was an easy step from these to Equator Lodge. On that subject most people would have found the ex-steward somewhat garrulous, but Jem Hardy listened with great content, and even brought him back to it when he showed signs of wandering. Altogether Mr. Wilks spent one of the pleasantest evenings of his life, and, returning home in a slight state of mental exhilaration, severely exercised the tongues of Fullalove Alley by a bearing considered incompatible with his station.

Jem Hardy paid a return call on the following Friday, and had no cause to complain of any lack of warmth in his reception. The ex-steward was delighted to see him, and after showing him various curios picked up during his voyages, took him to the small yard in the rear festooned with scarlet-runner beans, and gave him a chair in full view of the neighbours.

“I’m the only visitor tonight?” said Hardy, after an hour’s patient listening and waiting.

Mr. Wilks nodded casually. “Miss Kate came last night,” he said. “Friday is her night, but she came yesterday instead.”

Mr. Hardy said, “Oh, indeed,” and fell straight-way into a dismal reverie from which the most spirited efforts of his host only partially aroused him.

Without giving way to undue egotism it was pretty clear that Miss Nugent had changed her plans on his account, and a long vista of pleasant Friday evenings suddenly vanished. He, too, resolved to vary his visits, and, starting with a basis of two a week, sat trying to solve the mathematical chances of selecting the same as Kate Nugent; calculations which were not facilitated by a long-winded account from Mr. Wilks of certain interesting amours of his youthful prime.

Before he saw Kate Nugent again, however, another old acquaintance turned up safe and sound in Sunwich. Captain Nugent walking into the town saw him first: a tall, well-knit young man in shabby clothing, whose bearing even in the distance was oddly familiar. As he came closer the captain’s misgivings were confirmed, and in the sunburnt fellow in tattered clothes who advanced upon him with outstretched hand he reluctantly recognized his son.

“What have you come home for?” he inquired, ignoring the hand and eyeing him from head to foot.

“Change,” said Jack Nugent, laconically, as the smile left his face.

The captain shrugged his shoulders and stood silent. His son looked first up the road and then down.

“All well at home?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

Jack Nugent looked up the road again.

“Not much change in the town,” he said, at length.

“No,” said his father.

“Well, I’m glad to have seen you,” said his son. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said the captain.

His son nodded and, turning on his heel, walked back towards the town. Despite his forlorn appearance his step was jaunty and he carried his head high. The captain watched him until he was hidden by a bend in the road, and then, ashamed of himself for displaying so much emotion, turned his own steps in the direction of home.

“Well, he didn’t whine,” he said, slowly. “He’s got a bit of pride left.”

Meantime the prodigal had reached the town again, and stood ruefully considering his position.

He looked up the street, and then, the well-known shop of Mr. Kybird catching his eye, walked over and inspected the contents of the window. Sheath-knives, belts, tobacco-boxes, and watches were displayed alluringly behind the glass, sheltered from the sun by a row of cheap clothing dangling from short poles over the shop front. All the goods were marked in plain figures in reduced circumstances, Mr. Kybird giving a soaring imagination play in the first marking, and a good business faculty in the second.

At these valuables Jack Nugent, with a view of obtaining some idea of prices, gazed for some time. Then passing between two suits of oilskins which stood as sentinels in the doorway, he entered the shop and smiled affably at Miss Kybird, who was in charge. At his entrance she put down a piece of fancy-work, which Mr. Kybird called his sock, and with a casual glance at his clothes regarded him with a prejudiced eye.

“Beautiful day,” said the customer; “makes one feel quite young again.”

“What do you want?” inquired Miss Kybird.

Mr. Nugent turned to a broken cane-chair which stood by the counter, and, after applying severe tests, regardless of the lady’s feelings, sat down upon it and gave a sigh of relief.

“I’ve walked from London,” he said, in explanation. “I could sit here for hours.”

“Look here–” began the indignant Miss Kybird.

“Only people would be sure to couple our names together,” continued Mr. Nugent, mournfully.

“When a handsome young man and a good-looking girl–”

“Do you want to buy anything or not?” demanded Miss Kybird, with an impatient toss of her head.

“No,” said Jack, “I want to sell.”

“You’ve come to the wrong shop, then,” said Miss Kybird; “the warehouse is full of rubbish now.”

The other turned in his chair and looked hard at the window. “So it is,” he assented. “It’s a good job I’ve brought you something decent to put there.”

He felt in his pockets and, producing a silver-mounted briar-pipe, a battered watch, a knife, and a few other small articles, deposited them with reverent care upon the counter.

“No use to us,” declared Miss Kybird, anxious to hit back; “we burn coal here.”

“These’ll burn better than the coal you buy,” said the unmoved customer.

“Well, we don’t want them,” retorted Miss Kybird, raising her voice, “and I don’t want any of your impudence. Get up out of our chair.”

Her heightened tones penetrated to the small and untidy room behind the shop. The door opened, and Mr. Kybird in his shirt-sleeves appeared at the opening.

“Wot’s the row?” he demanded, his little black eyes glancing from one to the other.

“Only a lovers’ quarrel,” replied Jack. “You go away; we don’t want you.”

“Look ‘ere, we don’t want none o’ your nonsense,” said the shopkeeper, sharply; “and, wot’s more, we won’t ‘ave it. Who put that rubbish on my counter?”

He bustled forward, and taking the articles in his hands examined them closely.

“Three shillings for the lot—cash,” he remarked. “Done,” said the other.

“Did I say three?” inquired Mr. Kybird, startled at this ready acceptance.

“Five you said,” replied Mr. Nugent, “but I’ll take three, if you throw in a smile.”

Mr. Kybird, much against his inclinations, threw in a faint grin, and opening a drawer produced three shillings and flung them separately on the counter. Miss Kybird thawed somewhat, and glancing from the customer’s clothes to his face saw that he had a pleasant eye and a good moustache, together with a general air of recklessness much appreciated by the sex.

“Don’t spend it on drink,” she remarked, not unkindly.

“I won’t,” said the other, solemnly; “I’m going to buy house property with it.”

“Why, darn my eyes,” said Mr. Kybird, who had been regarding him closely; “darn my old eyes, if it ain’t young Nugent. Well, well!”

“That’s me,” said young Nugent, cheerfully; “I should have known you anywhere, Kybird: same old face, same old voice, same old shirt-sleeves.”

“‘Ere, come now,” objected the shopkeeper, shortening his arm and squinting along it.

“I should have known you anywhere,” continued the other, mournfully; “and here I’ve thrown up a splendid berth and come all the way from Australia just for one glimpse of Miss Kybird, and she doesn’t know me. When I die, Kybird, you will find the word ‘Calais’ engraven upon my heart.”

Mr. Kybird said, “Oh, indeed.” His daughter tossed her head and bade Mr. Nugent take his nonsense to people who might like it.

“Last time I see you,” said Mr. Kybird, pursing up his lips and gazing at the counter in an effort of memory; “last time I see you was one fifth o’ November when you an’ another bright young party was going about in two suits o’ oilskins wot I’d been ‘unting for ‘igh and low all day long.”

Jack Nugent sighed. “They were happy times, Kybird.”

“Might ha’ been for you,” retorted the other, his temper rising a little at the remembrance of his wrongs.

“Have you come home for good? inquired Miss Kybird, curiously. Have you seen your father? He passed here a little while ago.”

“I saw him,” said Jack, with a brevity which was not lost upon the astute Mr. Kybird. “I may stay in Sunwich, and I may not—it all depends.”

“You’re not going ‘ome?” said Mr. Kybird.

“No.”

The shopkeeper stood considering. He had a small room to let at the top of his house, and he stood divided between the fear of not getting his rent and the joy to a man fond of simple pleasures, to be obtained by dunning the arrogant Captain Nugent for his son’s debts. Before he could arrive at a decision his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a stout, sandy-haired lady from the back parlour, who, having conquered his scruples against matrimony some thirty years before, had kept a particularly wide-awake eye upon him ever since.

“Your tea’s a-gettin’ cold,” she remarked, severely.

Her husband received the news with calmness. He was by no means an enthusiast where that liquid was concerned, the admiration evoked by its non-inebriating qualities having been always something in the nature of a mystery to him.

“I’m coming,” he retorted; “I’m just ‘aving a word with Mr. Nugent ‘ere.”

“Well, I never did,” said the stout lady, coming farther into the shop and regarding the visitor. “I shouldn’t ‘ave knowed ‘im. If you’d asked me who ‘e was I couldn’t ha’ told you—I shouldn’t ‘ave knowed ‘im from Adam.”

Jack shook his head. “It’s hard to be forgotten like this,” he said, sadly. “Even Miss Kybird had forgotten me, after all that had passed between us.”

“Eh?” said Mr. Kybird.

“Oh, don’t take any notice of him,” said his daughter. “I’d like to see myself.”

Mr. Kybird paid no heed. He was still thinking of the son of Captain Nugent being indebted to him for lodging, and the more he thought of the idea the better he liked it.

“Well, now you’re ‘ere,” he said, with a great assumption of cordiality, “why not come in and ‘ave a cup o’ tea?”

The other hesitated a moment and then, with a light laugh, accepted the offer. He followed them into the small and untidy back parlour, and being requested by his hostess to squeeze in next to ‘Melia at the small round table, complied so literally with the order that that young lady complained bitterly of his encroachments.

“And where do you think of sleeping tonight?” inquired Mr. Kybird after his daughter had, to use her own expressive phrase, shown the guest “his place.”

Mr. Nugent shook his head. “I shall get a lodging somewhere,” he said, airily.

“There’s a room upstairs as you might ‘ave if you liked,” said Mr. Kybird, slowly. “It’s been let to a very respectable, clean young man for half a crown a week. Really it ought to be three shillings, but if you like to ‘ave it at the old price, you can.”

“Done with you,” said the other.

“No doubt you’ll soon get something to do,” continued Mr. Kybird, more in answer to his wife’s inquiring glances than anything else. “Half a crown every Saturday and the room’s yours.”

Mr. Nugent thanked him, and after making a tea which caused Mr. Kybird to congratulate himself upon the fact that he hadn’t offered to board him, sat regaling Mrs. Kybird and daughter with a recital of his adventures in Australia, receiving in return a full and true account of Sunwich and its people up to date.

“There’s no pride about ‘im, that’s what I like,” said Mrs. Kybird to her lord and master as they sat alone after closing time over a glass of gin and water. “He’s a nice young feller, but bisness is bisness, and s’pose you don’t get your rent?”

“I shall get it sooner or later,” said Mr. Kybird. “That stuck-up father of ‘is ‘ll be in a fine way at ‘im living here. That’s wot I’m thinking of.”

“I don’t see why,” said Mrs. Kybird, bridling. “Who’s Captain Nugent, I should like to know? We’re as good as what ‘e is, if not better. And as for the gell, if she’d got ‘alf Amelia’s looks she’d do.”

“‘Melia’s a fine-looking gal,” assented Mr. Kybird. “I wonder–”

He laid his pipe down on the table and stared at the mantelpiece. “He seems very struck with ‘er,” he concluded. “I see that directly.”

“Not afore I did,” said his wife, sharply.

“See it afore you come into the shop,” said Mr. Kybird, triumphantly. “It ‘ud be a strange thing to marry into that family, Emma.”

“She’s keeping company with young Teddy Silk,” his wife reminded him, coldly; “and if she wasn’t she could do better than a young man without a penny in ‘is pocket. Pride’s a fine thing, Dan’l, but you can’t live on it.”

“I know what I’m talking about,” said Mr. Kybird, impatiently. “I know she’s keeping company with Teddy as well as wot you do. Still, as far as money goes, young Nugent ‘ll be all right.”

“‘Ow?” inquired his wife.

Mr. Kybird hesitated and took a sip of his gin and water. Then he regarded the wife of his bosom with a calculating glance which at once excited that lady’s easily kindled wrath.

“You know I never tell secrets,” she cried.

“Not often,” corrected Mr. Kybird, “but then I don’t often tell you any. Wot would you say to young Nugent coming into five ‘undred pounds ‘is mother left ‘im when he’s twenty-five? He don’t know it, but I do.”

“Five ‘undred,” repeated his wife, “sure?”

“No,” said the other, “I’m not sure, but I know. I ‘ad it from young Roberts when ‘e was at Stone and Dartnell’s. Five ‘undred pounds! I shall get my money all right some time, and, if ‘e wants a little bit to go on with, ‘e can have it. He’s honest enough; I can see that by his manner.”

Upstairs in the tiny room under the tiles Mr. Jack Nugent, in blissful ignorance of his landlord’s generous sentiments towards him, slept the sound, dreamless sleep of the man free from monetary cares. In the sanctity of her chamber Miss Kybird, gazing approvingly at the reflection of her yellow hair and fine eyes in the little cracked looking-glass, was already comparing him very favourably with the somewhat pessimistic Mr. Silk.

CHAPTER VIII

Mr. Nugent’s return caused a sensation in several quarters, the feeling at Equator Lodge bordering close upon open mutiny. Even Mrs. Kingdom plucked up spirit and read the astonished captain a homily upon the first duties of a parent—a homily which she backed up by reading the story of the Prodigal Son through to the bitter end. At the conclusion she broke down entirely and was led up to bed by Kate and Bella, the sympathy of the latter taking an acute form, and consisting mainly of innuendoes which could only refer to one person in the house.

Kate Nugent, who was not prone to tears, took a different line, but with no better success. The captain declined to discuss the subject, and, after listening to a description of himself in which Nero and other celebrities figured for the purpose of having their characters whitewashed, took up his hat and went out.

Jem Hardy heard of the new arrival from his partner, and, ignoring that gentleman’s urgent advice to make hay while the sun shone and take Master Nugent for a walk forthwith sat thoughtfully considering how to turn the affair to the best advantage. A slight outbreak of diphtheria at Fullalove Alley had, for a time, closed that thoroughfare to Miss Nugent, and he was inclined to regard the opportune arrival of her brother as an effort of Providence on his behalf.

For some days, however, he looked for Jack Nugent in vain, that gentleman either being out of doors engaged in an earnest search for work, or snugly seated in the back parlour of the Kybirds, indulging in the somewhat perilous pastime of paying compliments to Amelia Kybird. Remittances which had reached him from his sister and aunt had been promptly returned, and he was indebted to the amiable Mr. Kybird for the bare necessaries of life. In these circumstances a warm feeling of gratitude towards the family closed his eyes to their obvious shortcomings.

He even obtained work down at the harbour through a friend of Mr. Kybird’s. It was not of a very exalted nature, and caused more strain upon the back than the intellect, but seven years of roughing it had left him singularly free from caste prejudices, a freedom which he soon discovered was not shared by his old acquaintances at Sunwich. The discovery made him somewhat bitter, and when Hardy stopped him one afternoon as he was on his way home from work he tried to ignore his outstretched hand and continued on his way.

“It is a long time since we met,” said Hardy, placing himself in front of him.

“Good heavens,” said Jack, regarding him closely, “it’s Jemmy Hardy— grown up spick and span like the industrious little boys in the school-books. I heard you were back here.”

“I came back just before you did,” said Hardy. “Brass band playing you in and all that sort of thing, I suppose,” said the other. “Alas, how the wicked prosper—and you were wicked. Do you remember how you used to knock me about?”

“Come round to my place and have a chat,” said Hardy.

Jack shook his head. “They’re expecting me in to tea,” he said, with a nod in the direction of Mr. Kybird’s, “and honest waterside labourers who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow—when the foreman is looking —do not frequent the society of the upper classes.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Hardy, politely.

“Well, I’m not very tidy,” retorted Mr. Nugent, glancing at his clothes. “I don’t mind it myself; I’m a philosopher, and nothing hurts me so long as I have enough to eat and drink; but I don’t inflict myself on my friends, and I must say most of them meet me more than half-way.”

“Imagination,” said Hardy.

“All except Kate and my aunt,” said Jack, firmly. “Poor Kate; I tried to cut her the other day.”

“Cut her?” echoed Hardy.

Nugent nodded. “To save her feelings,” he replied; “but she wouldn’t be cut, bless her, and on the distinct understanding that it wasn’t to form a precedent, I let her kiss me behind a waggon. Do you know, I fancy she’s grown up rather good-looking, Jem?”

“You are observant,” said Mr. Hardy, admiringly.

“Of course, it may be my partiality,” said Mr. Nugent, with judicial fairness. “I was always a bit fond of Kate. I don’t suppose anybody else would see anything in her. Where are you living now?”

“Fort Road,” said Hardy; “come round any evening you can, if you won’t come now.”

Nugent promised, and, catching sight of Miss Kybird standing in the doorway of the shop, bade him good-bye and crossed the road. It was becoming quite a regular thing for her to wait and have her tea with him now, an arrangement which was provocative of many sly remarks on the part of Mrs. Kybird.

“Thought you were never coming,” said Miss Kybird, tartly, as she led the way to the back room and took her seat at the untidy tea-tray.

“And you’ve been crying your eyes out, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Nugent, as he groped in the depths of a tall jar for black-currant jam. “Well, you’re not the first, and I don’t suppose you’ll be the last. How’s Teddy?”

“Get your tea,” retorted Miss Kybird, “and don’t make that scraping noise on the bottom of the jar with your knife. It puts my teeth on edge.”

“So it does mine,” said Mr. Nugent, “but there’s a black currant down there, and I mean to have it. ‘Waste not, want not.’”

“Make him put that knife down,” said Miss Kybird, as her mother entered the room. Mrs. Kybird shook her head at him. “You two are always quarrelling,” she said, archly, “just like a couple of—couple of–”

“Love-birds,” suggested Mr. Nugent.

Mrs. Kybird in great glee squeezed round to him and smote him playfully with her large, fat hand, and then, being somewhat out of breath with the exertion, sat down to enjoy the jest in comfort.

“That’s how you encourage him,” said her daughter; “no wonder he doesn’t behave. No wonder he acts as if the whole place belongs to him.”

The remark was certainly descriptive of Mr. Nugent’s behaviour. His easy assurance and affability had already made him a prime favourite with Mrs. Kybird, and had not been without its effect upon her daughter. The constrained and severe company manners of Mr. Edward Silk showed up but poorly beside those of the paying guest, and Miss Kybird had on several occasions drawn comparisons which would have rendered both gentlemen uneasy if they had known of them.

Mr. Nugent carried the same easy good-fellowship with him the following week when, neatly attired in a second-hand suit from Mr. Kybird’s extensive stock, he paid a visit to Jem Hardy to talk over old times and discuss the future.

“You ought to make friends with your father,” said the latter; “it only wants a little common sense and mutual forbearance.”

“That’s all,” said Nugent; “sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? No, all he wants is for me to clear out of Sunwich, and I’m not going to—until it pleases me, at any rate. It’s poison to him for me to be living at the Kybirds’ and pushing a trolley down on the quay. Talk about love sweetening toil, that does.”

Hardy changed the subject, and Nugent, nothing loath, discoursed on his wanderings and took him on a personally conducted tour through the continent of Australia. “And I’ve come back to lay my bones in Sunwich Churchyard,” he concluded, pathetically; “that is, when I’ve done with ‘em.”

“A lot of things’ll happen before then,” said Hardy.

“I hope so,” rejoined Mr. Nugent, piously; “my desire is to be buried by my weeping great-grandchildren. In fact, I’ve left instructions to that effect in my will—all I have left, by the way.”

“You’re not going to keep on at this water-side work, I suppose?” said Hardy, making another effort to give the conversation a serious turn.

“The foreman doesn’t think so,” replied the other, as he helped himself to some whisky; “he has made several remarks to that effect lately.”

He leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully, by no means insensible to the comfort of his surroundings. He had not been in such comfortable quarters since he left home seven years before. He thought of the untidy litter of the Kybirds’ back parlour, with the forlorn view of the yard in the rear. Something of his reflections he confided to Hardy as he rose to leave.

“But my market value is about a pound a week,” he concluded, ruefully, “so I must cut my coat to suit my cloth. Good-night.”

He walked home somewhat soberly at first, but the air was cool and fresh and a glorious moon was riding in the sky. He whistled cheerfully, and his spirits rose as various chimerical plans of making money occurred to him. By the time he reached the High Street, the shops of which were all closed for the night, he was earning five hundred a year and spending a thousand. He turned the handle of the door and, walking in, discovered Miss Kybird entertaining company in the person of Mr. Edward Silk.

“Halloa,” he said, airily, as he took a seat. “Don’t mind me, young people. Go on just as you would if I were not here.”

Mr. Edward Silk grumbled something under his breath; Miss Kybird, turning to the intruder with a smile of welcome, remarked that she had just thought of going to sleep.

“Going to sleep?” repeated Mr. Silk, thunder-struck.

“Yes,” said Miss Kybird, yawning.

Mr. Silk gazed at her, open-mouthed. “What, with me ‘ere?” he inquired, in trembling tones.

“You’re not very lively company,” said Miss Kybird, bending over her sewing. “I don’t think you’ve spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour, and before that you were talking of death-warnings. Made my flesh creep, you did.”

“Shame!” said Mr. Nugent.

“You didn’t say anything to me about your flesh creeping,” muttered Mr. Silk.

“You ought to have seen it creep,” interposed Mr. Nugent, severely.

“I’m not talking to you,” said Mr. Silk, turning on him; “when I want the favour of remarks from you I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t you talk to my gentlemen friends like that, Teddy,” said Miss Kybird, sharply, “because I won’t have it. Why don’t you try and be bright and cheerful like Mr. Nugent?”

Mr. Silk turned and regarded that gentleman steadfastly; Mr. Nugent meeting his gaze with a pleasant smile and a low-voiced offer to give him lessons at half a crown an hour.

“I wouldn’t be like ‘im for worlds,” said Mr. Silk, with a scornful laugh. “I’d sooner be like anybody.”

“What have you been saying to him?” inquired Nugent.

“Nothing,” replied Miss Kybird; “he’s often like that. He’s got a nasty, miserable, jealous disposition. Not that I mind what he thinks.”

Mr. Silk breathed hard and looked from one to the other.

“Perhaps he’ll grow out of it,” said Nugent, hopefully. “Cheer up, Teddy. You’re young yet.”

“Might I arsk,” said the solemnly enraged Mr. Silk, “might I arsk you not to be so free with my Christian name?”

“He doesn’t like his name now,” said Nugent, drawing his chair closer to Miss Kybird’s, “and I don’t wonder at it. What shall we call him? Job? What’s that work you’re doing? Why don’t you get on with that fancy waistcoat you are doing for me?”

Before Miss Kybird could deny all knowledge of the article in question her sorely tried swain created a diversion by rising. To that simple act he imparted an emphasis which commanded the attention of both beholders, and, drawing over to Miss Kybird, he stood over her in an attitude at once terrifying and reproachful.