“I suppose she thinks Daly is a dare-devil,” said the offended Mr. Blundell.  “And I wish people wouldn’t talk about me and my skin.  Why can’t they mind their own business?”

Mr. Turnbull eyed him indignantly, and then, sitting in a very upright position, slowly filled his pipe, and declining a proffered match rose and took one from the mantel-piece.

“I was doing the best I could for you,” he said, staring hard at the ingrate.  “I was trying to make Venia see what a careful husband you would make.  Miss Sippet herself is most particular about such things—­ and Venia seemed to think something of it, because she asked me whether you used a warming-pan.”

[Illustration:  “She asked me whether you used a warming-pan.”]

Mr. Blundell got up from his chair and, without going through the formality of bidding his host good-by, quitted the room and closed the door violently behind him.  He was red with rage, and he brooded darkly as he made his way home on the folly of carrying on the traditions of a devoted mother without thinking for himself.

For the next two or three days, to Venia’s secret concern, he failed to put in an appearance at the farm—­a fact which made flirtation with the sergeant a somewhat uninteresting business.  Her sole recompense was the dismay of her father, and for his benefit she dwelt upon the advantages of the Army in a manner that would have made the fortune of a recruiting-sergeant.

“She’s just crazy after the soldiers,” he said to Mr. Blundell, whom he was trying to spur on to a desperate effort.  “I’ve been watching her close, and I can see what it is now; she’s romantic.  You’re too slow and ordinary for her.  She wants somebody more dazzling.  She told Daly only yesterday afternoon that she loved heroes.  Told it to him to his face.  I sat there and heard her.  It’s a pity you ain’t a hero, John.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Blundell; “then, if I was, I expect she’d like something else.”

The other shook his head.  “If you could only do something daring,” he murmured; “half-kill some-body, or save somebody’s life, and let her see you do it.  Couldn’t you dive off the quay and save some-body’s life from drowning?”

“Yes, I could,” said Blundell, “if somebody would only tumble in.”

“You might pretend that you thought you saw somebody drowning,” suggested Mr. Turnbull.

“And be laughed at,” said Mr. Blundell, who knew his Venia by heart.

“You always seem to be able to think of objections,” complained Mr. Turnbull; “I’ve noticed that in you before.”

“I’d go in fast enough if there was anybody there,” said Blundell.  “I’m not much of a swimmer, but—­”

“All the better,” interrupted the other; “that would make it all the more daring.”

“And I don’t much care if I’m drowned,” pursued the younger man, gloomily.

Mr. Turnbull thrust his hands in his pockets and took a turn or two up and down the room.  His brows were knitted and his lips pursed.  In the presence of this mental stress Mr. Blundell preserved a respectful silence.