kindness.  She—­what is it, Janet?  Never mind, I’ve got the story—­she didn’t want to marry; but this prince, who called on me just now, happened to be her father’s nominee, and he heard of your scoundrelism, and he behaved like a man and a gentleman, and offered himself, none too early nor too late, as it turns out; and the princess, like a good girl, has made amends to her father by accepting him.  I’ve the word of this Prince Hermann for it.  Now you can look upon a game of stale-mate.  If I had gone to the prince, it wouldn’t have been to back your play; but, if you hadn’t been guilty of the tricks of a blackguard past praying for, this princess would never have been obliged to marry a man to protect her father and herself.  They sent him here to stop any misunderstanding.  He speaks good English, so that’s certain.  Your lies will be contradicted, every one of ’em, seriatim, in to-morrow’s newspapers, setting the real man’in place of the wrong one; and you ’ll draw no profit from them in your fashionable world, where you ’ve been grinning lately, like a blackamoor’s head on a conjuror’s plate—­the devil alone able to account for the body and joinings.  Now you can be off.’

I went up to my father.  His plight was more desperate than mine, for I had resembled the condemned before the firing-party, to whom the expected bullet brings a merely physical shock.  He, poor man, heard his sentence, which is the heart’s pang of death; and how fondly and rootedly he had clung to the idea of my marriage with the princess was shown in his extinction after this blow.

My grandfather chose the moment as a fitting one to ask me for the last time to take my side.

I replied, without offence in the tones of my voice, that I thought my father need not lose me into the bargain, after what he had suffered that day.

He just as quietly rejoined with a recommendation to me to divorce myself for good and all from a scoundrel.

I took my father’s arm:  he was not in a state to move away unsupported.

My aunt Dorothy stood weeping; Janet was at the window, no friend to either of us.

I said to her, ‘You have your wish.’

She shook her head, but did not look back.

My grandfather watched me, step by step, until I had reached the door.

‘You’re going, are you?’ he said.  ‘Then I whistle you off my fingers!’

An attempt to speak was made by my father in the doorway.  He bowed wide of the company, like a blind man.  I led him out.

Dimness of sight spared me from seeing certain figures, which were at the toll-bar of the pier, on the way to quit our shores.  What I heard was not of a character to give me faith in the sanity of the companion I had chosen.  He murmured it at first to himself: 

‘Waddy shall have her monument!’

My patience was not proof against the repetition of it aloud to me.  Had I been gentler I might have known that his nature was compelled to look forward to something, and he discerned nothing in the future, save the task of raising a memorial to a faithful servant.