“I am glad to have been of service,” said the other, looking his grimmest.

He acknowledged the young man’s farewell with a short nod and, forgetting his sudden desire for music, continued to pace up and down with his daughter.

“What have you been saying to that—­that fellow?” he demanded, turning to her, suddenly.

Miss Nugent reflected.  “I said it was a fine evening,” she replied, at last.

“No doubt,” said her father.  “What else?”

“I think I asked him whether he was fond of gardening,” said Miss Nugent, slowly.  “Yes, I’m sure I did.”

“You had no business to speak to him at all,” said the fuming captain.

“I don’t quite see how I could help doing so,” said his daughter.  “You surely don’t expect me to be rude to your visitors?  Besides, I feel rather sorry for him.”

“Sorry?” repeated the captain, sharply.  “What for?”

“Because he hasn’t got a nice, kind, soft-spoken father,” said Miss Nugent, squeezing his arm affectionately.

The appearance of the other couple at the head of the path saved the captain the necessity of a retort.  They stood in a little knot talking, but Miss Nugent, contrary to her usual habit, said but little.  She was holding her father’s arm and gazing absently at the dim fields stretching away beyond the garden.

At the same time Mr. James Hardy, feeling, despite his bold front, somewhat badly snubbed, was sitting on the beach thinking over the situation.  After a quarter of an hour in the company of Kate Nugent all else seemed sordid and prosaic; his own conduct in his attempt to save her brother from the consequences of his folly most sordid of all.  He wondered, gloomily, what she would think when she heard of it.

[Illustration:  “He wondered, gloomily, what she would think when she heard of it.”]

He rose at last and in the pale light of the new moon walked slowly along towards the town.  In his present state of mind he wanted to talk about Kate Nugent, and the only person who could be depended upon for doing that was Samson Wilks.  It was a never-tiring subject of the steward’s, and since his discovery of the state of Hardy’s feelings in that quarter the slightest allusion was sufficient to let loose a flood of reminiscences.

It was dark by the time Hardy reached the alley, and in most of the houses the lamps were lit behind drawn blinds.  The steward’s house, however, was in darkness and there was no response when he tapped.  He turned the handle of the door and looked in.  A dim figure rose with a start from a chair.

“I hope you were not asleep?” said Hardy.

“No, sir,” said the steward, in a relieved voice.  “I thought it was somebody else.”

He placed a chair for his visitor and, having lit the lamp, slowly lowered the blind and took a seat opposite.