“There’s spirit for you, my lad!” Comyn shouted; “I give you Miss Dorothy.”  And he drained a glass of punch Scipio had brought in, Doctor Courtenay and I joining him with a will.

“I pray you go on, sir,” I said to the doctor.

“A pest on your impatience!” replied he; “I begin to think you are in love with her yourself.”

“To be sure he is,” said Comyn; “he had lost my esteem and he were not.”

The doctor gave me an odd look.  I was red enough, indeed.

“’I could say naught, my dear Courtenay, to induce her to believe that his Grace’s indiscretions arose from the wildness of youth.  And I pass over the injustice she hath unwittingly done me, whose only efforts are for her bettering.  The end of it all was that I must needs post back to the duke, who was stamping with impatience up and down, and drinking Burgundy.  I am sure I meant him no offence, but told him in as many words, that my daughter had refused him.  And, will you believe me, sir?  He took occasion to insult me (I cannot with propriety repeat his speech), and he flung a bottle after me as I passed out the door.  Was he not far gone in wine at the time, I assure you I had called him out for it.’”

“And, gentlemen,” said the doctor, when our merriment was somewhat spent, “I’ll lay a pipe of the best Madeira, that our little fool never knows the figure he has cut with his Grace.”

CHAPTER XVI

IN WHICH SOME THINGS ARE MADE CLEAR

The Thunderer weighed the next day, Saturday, while I was still upon my back, and Comyn sailed with her.  Not, however, before I had seen him again.  Our affection was such as comes not often to those who drift together to part.  And he left me that sword with the jewelled hilt, that hangs above my study fire, which he had bought in Toledo.  He told me that he was heartily sick of the navy; that he had entered only in respect for a wish of his father’s, the late Admiral Lord Comyn, and that the Thunderer was to sail for New York, where he looked for a release from his commission, and whence he would return to England.  He would carry any messages to Miss Manners that I chose to send.  But I could think of none, save to beg him to remind her that she was constantly in my thoughts.  He promised me, roguishly enough, that he would have thought of a better than that by the time he sighted Cape Clear.  And were I ever to come to London he would put me up at Brooks’s Club, and warrant me a better time and more friends than ever had a Caribbee who came home on a visit.

My grandfather kept his word in regard to Mr. Allen, and on Sunday commanded the coach at eight.  We drove over bad roads to the church at South River.  And he afterwards declined the voluntary aid he hitherto had been used to give to St. Anne’s.  In the meantime, good Mr. Swain had called again, bringing some jelly and cake of Patty’s own making; and a letter writ out of the sincerity of her heart, full of tender concern and of penitence.  She would never cease to blame herself for the wrong she now knew she had done me.