’The desert where you ’ve come from ‘s good,’ said the captain, sharply nodding.

Mrs. Adister O’Donnell ejaculated:  ‘Wine!’ for a heavy comment upon one of his topics, and crushed it.

Philip saw that Patrick had no desire to spread, and did not trouble him.

‘Good horses in the stable too,’ said the captain.

Patrick addressed Mrs. Adister:  ’I have hardly excused myself to you, madam.’

Her head was aloft in dumb apostrophe of wearifulness over another of her husband’s topics.

‘Do not excuse yourself at all,’ she said.

The captain shivered.  He overhauled his plotting soul publicly:  ‘Why don’t you out with it yourself!’ and it was wonderful why he had not done so, save that he was prone to petty conspiracy, and had thought reasonably that the revelation would be damp, gunpowder, coming from him.  And for when he added:  ’The boy’s fresh from Earlsfont; he went down to look at the brav old house of the Adisters, and was nobly welcomed and entertained, and made a vast impression,’ his wife sedately remarked to Patrick, ‘You have seen my brother Edward.’

‘And brings a message of his love to you, my dear,’ the Captain bit his nail harder.

‘You have a message for me?’ she asked; and Patrick replied:  ’The captain is giving a free translation.  I was down there, and I took the liberty of calling on Mr. Adister, and I had a very kind reception.  We hunted, we had a good day with the hounds.  I think I remember hearing that you go there at Christmas, madam.’

’Our last Christmas at Earlsfont was a sad meeting for the family.  My brother Edward is well?’

’I had the happiness to be told that I had been of a little service in cheering him.’

‘I can believe it,’ said Mrs. Adister, letting her eyes dwell on the young man; and he was moved by the silvery tremulousness of her voice.

She resumed:  ‘You have the art of dressing in a surprisingly short time.’

‘There!’ exclaimed Captain Con:  for no man can hear the words which prove him a prophet without showing excitement.  ’Didn’t I say so?  Patrick’s a hero for love or war, my dear.  He stood neat and trim from the silk socks to the sprig of necktie in six minutes by my watch.  And that’s witness to me that you may count on him for what the great Napoleon called two-o’clock-in-the-morning courage; not too common even in his immortal army:—­when it’s pitch black and frosty cold, and you’re buried within in a dream of home, and the trumpet springs you to your legs in a trice, boots and trowsers, coat and sword-belt and shako, and one twirl to the whiskers, and away before a second snap of the fingers to where the great big bursting end of all things for you lies crouching like a Java-Tiger—­a ferocious beast painted undertaker’s colour—­for a leap at you in particular out of the dark;—­never waiting an instant to ask what’s the matter and pretend you don’t know.  That’s rare, Philip; that’s bravery; Napoleon knew the thing; and Patrick has it; my hand’s on the boy’s back for that.’