‘Pray, Sir, don’t let me trouble you,’ said Aunt Becky, in her high, cold way.

’Madam, ’tis no trouble—­it would be a happiness to me, Madam, to serve you in any way you would permit; but ’tis a trouble to me, Madam, indeed, that you leave the room, and a greater trouble,’ said little Puddock, waxing fluent as he proceeded, ’that I have incurred your displeasure—­indeed, Madam, I know not how—­your goodness to me, Madam, in my sickness, I never can forget.’

’You can forget, Sir—­you have forgot.  Though, indeed, Sir, there was little to remember, I—­I’m glad you thought me kind, Sir.  I—­I wish you well, Sir,’ said Aunt Becky.  She was looking down and a little pale, and in her accents something hurried and almost sad.  ’And as for my displeasure, Sir, who said I was displeased?  And if I were, what could my displeasure be to you?  No, Sir,’ she went on almost fiercely, and with a little stamp on the floor, ’you don’t care; and why should you?—­you’ve proved it—­you don’t, Lieutenant Puddock, and you never did.’

And, without waiting for an answer, Aunt Becky flashed out of the room, and up stairs to her chamber, the door of which she slammed fiercely; and Gertrude, who was writing a letter in her own chamber, heard her turn the key hastily in the lock.

When Cluffe, who for some time continued to exercise his lungs in persuasive invitations to Flora, at last gave over the pursuit, and returned to the drawing-room, to suggest that the goddess in question had probably retreated to the kitchen, he was a good deal chagrined to find the drawing-room ‘untreasured of its mistress.’

Puddock looked a good deal put out, and his explanation was none of the clearest; and he could not at all say that the lady was coming back.

‘I think, Lieutenant Puddock,’ said Cluffe, who was much displeased, and had come to regard Aunt Rebecca very much as under his especial protection, ’it might have been better we hadn’t called here.  I—­you see—­you’re not—­you see it yourself—­you’ve offended Miss Rebecca Chattesworth somehow, and I’m afraid you’ve not mended matters while I was down stairs bawling after that cursed—­that—­the—­little dog, you know.  And—­and for my part, I’m devilish sorry I came, Sir.’

This was said after a wait of nearly ten minutes, which appeared at least twice as long.

‘I’m sorry, Sir, I embarrassed you with the disadvantage of my company,’ answered little Puddock, with dignity.

’Why, ‘tisn’t that, you know,’ rejoined Cluffe, in a patronising ’my good-fellow’ sort of way; ’you know I always liked your company devilish well.  But where’s the good of putting one’s self in the way of being thought de trop—­don’t you see—­by other people—­and annoyed in this way—­and—­you—­you don’t know the world, Puddock—­you’d much better leave yourself in any hands, d’ye see; and so, I suppose, we may as well be off now—­’tis no use waiting longer.’