Barron was back to dine at the admiral’s that night, but the dinner was not a success. Myra was singularly cold and formal in her manner; Edie pleaded a headache; and the admiral was worried by recollections of the morning’s blunder, and felt awkward and constrained with his guest.

Strive hard as he would he could not help making comparisons, and a curious feeling of pity came over him as he thought of Stratton’s blank face and the look of despair in his eyes, while he half wished that he had not allowed himself to be so easily won over to the engagement.

“For he is, after all, nearly a stranger,” he mused as his son-in-law elect tried hard to secure Myra’s interest in a society anecdote he was retailing, to which she listened and that was all. “Yes, a stranger,” mused Sir Mark. “I know very little about him. Bah! Absurd! What should I know of any man who wanted to marry my girl? I might meet his relatives, and there would be a certain amount of intercourse, but if I knew them for fifty years it would not make the man a good husband to my poor girl. He loves her dearly; he is a fine, clever, manly fellow; there is no doubt about the Barron estate in Trinidad, and he has a handsome balance at his banker’s.”

The ladies rose soon after, and Barron held the door open, returning slowly to his seat, and shrugging his shoulders slightly. For there had been no tender look as Myra passed out, and Barron’s thought was justified.

“Don’t seem as if we were engaged. I hope,” he said aloud, “Myra is not unwell.”

“Eh? Oh, no, my dear boy, no. Girls do come over grumpy sometimes. Here, try this claret, and let’s have a cozy chat for an hour before we go up.”

“An hour?” said Barron, with a raising of the eyebrows.

“Yes; why not? You’re not a love-sick boy, and you’ll have plenty of your wife by and by.”

“Not a boy, certainly, sir. As to the love-sickness—well, I don’t know. But—yes, that’s a good glass of claret. Larose, eh?”

“Yes. Fill your glass again.”

“Willingly,” said Baron, obeying his host, and pushing back the jug, “for I want to talk to you, sir, very seriously, and one seems to get on over a glass of wine.”

“To talk to me?” said Sir Mark sharply, for his nerves were still ajar. “Nothing the matter?”

“Yes—and no.”

“Look here, Barron,” cried Sir Mark excitedly, “no beating about the bush. If you want to draw back from your engagement say so like a man.”

“If I want to draw back from my engagement, my dear sir? What in the world are you thinking about?”

“I—er—well, your manner was so strange.”

“Not strange, Sir Mark: serious. There are serious moments in my life. By the way, I have seen my solicitor again respecting the settlements, and the papers will be ready at any time.”

“No hurry, sir, no hurry,” said Sir Mark, frowning. “Well?”

Barron drew a long breath.

“Well, what is it, man—what is wrong?”

“Only the old story. When the cat’s away the mice will play.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had bad news from my agent in Trinidad.”

“Indeed!”

“He writes to me by this mail that he has done his best, but the estate needs my immediate supervision—that he cannot exert the same influence and authority that I should.”

“Losses?”

“Oh, no; gains—that is, a little on the right side. But a little is absurd. Those plantations ought to produce a princely revenue.”

The admiral looked at his guest keenly.

“Well,” he said at last, “what does this mean?”

“That in spite of everything—my own desires and the love I have for England—I shall have to run across as soon as possible.”

“For how long?&rdq............