The honour was so unexpected that Mr. Wilks, coming into the parlour in response to the tapping of the captain’s stick on the floor, stood for a short time eyeing him in dismay.  Only two minutes before he had taken Mr. James Hardy into the kitchen to point out the interior beauties of an ancient clock, and the situation simply appalled him.  The captain greeted him almost politely and bade him sit down.  Mr. Wilks smiled faintly and caught his breath.

“Sit down,” repeated the captain.

“I’ve left something in the kitchen, sir,” said Mr. Wilks.  “I’ll be back in half a minute.”

The captain nodded.  In the kitchen Mr. Wilks rapidly and incoherently explained the situation to Mr. Hardy.

“I’ll sit here,” said the latter, drawing up a comfortable oak chair to the stove.

“You see, he don’t know that we know each other,” explained the apologetic steward, “but I don’t like leaving you in the kitchen.”

“I’m all right,” said Hardy; “don’t you trouble about me.”

He waved him away, and Mr. Wilks, still pale, closed the door behind him and, rejoining the captain, sat down on the extreme edge of a chair and waited.

“I’ve come to see you on a little matter of business,” said his visitor.

Mr. Wilks smiled; then, feeling that perhaps that was not quite the right thing to do, looked serious again.

“I came to see you about my—­my son,” continued the captain.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilks.  “Master Jack, you mean?”

“I’ve only got one son,” said the other, unpleasantly, “unless you happen to know of any more.”

Mr. Wilks almost fell off the edge of the chair in his haste to disclaim any such knowledge.  His ideas were in a ferment, and the guilty knowledge of what he had left in the kitchen added to his confusion.  And just at that moment the door opened and Miss Nugent came briskly in.

Her surprise at seeing her father ensconced in a chair by the fire led to a rapid volley of questions.  The captain, in lieu of answering them, asked another.

“What do you want here?”

“I have come to see Sam,” said Miss Nugent.  “Fancy seeing you here!  How are you, Sam?”

“Pretty well, miss, thank’ee,” replied Mr. Wilks, “considering,” he added, truthfully, after a moment’s reflection.

Miss Nugent dropped into a chair and put her feet on the fender.  Her father eyed her restlessly.

“I came here to speak to Sam about a private matter,” he said, abruptly.

“Private matter,” said his daughter, looking round in surprise.  “What about?”

“A private matter,” repeated Captain Nugent.  “Suppose you come in some other time.”

Kate Nugent sighed and took her feet from the fender.  “I’ll go and wait in the kitchen,” she said, crossing to the door.

Both men protested.  The captain because it ill-assorted with his dignity for his daughter to sit in the kitchen, and Mr. Wilks because of the visitor already there.  The face of the steward, indeed, took on such extraordinary expressions in his endeavour to convey private information to the girl that she gazed at him in silent amazement.  Then she turned the handle of the door and, passing through, closed it with a bang which was final.