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“Joe got you your scolding.”

Now, I can’t say whether I did or did not emphasize the last word unduly, but Pyrrha blushed again, and remarked:

“You want to know too much, sir, by a deal.”

So I left that aspect to the subject, and continued:

“I suppose it was for letting Mr. Smugg kiss you?”

“I couldn’t help it.”

I had great doubts of that–she could have tackled Smugg with one hand; but I said pleasantly:

“No more could he, I’m sure.”

Pyrrha cast an alarmed glance at the house.

“Oh, I’ll be careful,” I laughed. “Yes, and I’ll let you go. But just tell me, Betsy, what do you think of Mr. Smugg?”

“I don’t think that of him!” said she, snapping her pretty red fingers. “Joe ‘ud make ten of him. I wish Joe’d talk to him a bit.”

The end came soon after this, and, in spite of our attitude (I speak of us four, not of Smugg) of whole-heartedness, I think it was rather a shock to us all, when Joe announced one morning, on his arrival with the chops, that he was to be made a happy man at the church next day. Smugg was not in the room, and the rest of us congratulated Joe, and made up a purse for him to give Pyrrha, with our best respects, and he bowed himself out, mightily pleased, and asseverating that we were real gentlemen. Then we sat and looked at the table.

“It robs us of a resource,” pronounced Gayford, once again making himself the mouthpiece of the party. We all nodded, and filled fresh pipes.

Presently Smugg sidled in. We had seen little of him the last week; save when he was construing he had taken refuge in his own room. When he came in now, Gayford wagged his head significantly at me; apparently, it was my task to bell the cat. I rose, and went to the mantelpiece. Smugg had sat down at the table, and my back was to him. I took a match from the box, struck it, and applied it to my pipe, and, punctuating my words with interspersed puffings, I said carelessly:

“By the way, Smugg, Pyrrha’s going to be married to Joe Shanks to-morrow.”

I don’t know how he looked. I kept my face from him, but, after a long minute’s pause, he answered:

“Thank you, Robertson. It’s Aeschylus this morning, isn’t it?”

We had a noisy evening that night. I suppose we felt below par, and wanted cheering up. Anyhow, we made an expedition to the grocer’s, and amazed him with a demand for his best champagne and his choicest sherry. We carried the goods home in a bag, and sat down to a revel. Smugg had some bread and cheese in his own room; he said that he had letters to write. We dined largely, and drank still more largely; then we sang, and at last–it was near on twelve, a terrible hour for that neighborhood–we made our way, amid much boisterousness and horseplay, to bed; where I, at least, was asleep in five minutes.

As the church clock struck two, I awoke. I heard a sound of movement in Smugg’s room next door. I lay and listened. Presently his door opened, and he creaked gently downstairs. I sprang out of bed and looked out of the window. Smugg, fully dressed, was gliding along the path toward Dill’s farm. Some impulse–curiosity only, very likely–made me jump into my trousers, seize a flannel jacket, draw on a pair of boots, and hastily follow him. When I got outside he was visible in the moonlight, mounting the path ahead of me. He held on his way toward the farm, I following. When he reached the yard he stopped for a moment, and seemed to peer up at the windows, which were all dark and unresponsive. I stood as quiet as I could, twenty yards from him, and moved cautiously on again when he turned to the right and passed through the gate into the meadows.