“That’s my business,” he answered sharply. “Come, come, don’t be so grumpy and short with me, Owen. You were always such a rare good-tempered chap. What has changed you, eh? Now, come along home with me, and we will have a good ‘bukh’ over old times,” and, as he spoke, his grasp--a fierce, possessive clutch--tightened painfully on his prisoner’s arm. “But,” objected the victim, “I was going for a turn.” “No, you are not; you are coming straight home with me. My wife will be glad to make your acquaintance. I forget if you’ve met her?” and he touched his forehead. “I’m a little funny here, Owen. India, my boy! she takes it out of all of us one way or another--teeth, hair, liver, brains. Come on now--right about turn!” he concluded facetiously. There was no use in resistance or in having a violent personal struggle with the lunatic--nothing for it but to submit; and, in spite of his reluctance, Wynyard was conducted, as if in custody, right up to the door of Ivy House. Were he to refuse to enter, he knew there would only be a scene in the street, a gaping crowd, and an unpleasant exposure. “Look, look, Tom!” cried Mrs. Hogben, pointing to the opposite house, “if the captain hasn’t got hold of our young fellow, and a-walkin’ him home as if he had him in charge--he has took a fancy to him, I do declare!” “There’s more nor one has took a fancy to Owen,” remarked Tom, with gruff significance; “but, as to the captain--well--I’d rather it was him--nor me.” The captain entered his house with a latchkey and an air of importance; there was a light in the square hall, and a door at one side was ajar. He called out-- “Katie, Katie, come and see what _I_ have found for you!” A door was opened wide, and there stood Mrs. Ramsay in a tea-gown, with a little black Pom. in her arms. She looked amazed, as well she might, but instantly dissembled her surprise, and said-- “Good-evening--I see my husband has invited you in for a smoke?” “Smoke!” said Captain Ramsay, passing into the drawing-room, and beckoning Wynyard to follow him. As he did so, he glanced apologetically at the lady of the house, and it struck him then that he was looking into a face that had seen all the sorrows of the world. The room was furnished with solid old furniture, but Mrs. Ramsay’s taste--or was it Miss Morven’s--had made it a charming and restful retreat, with pretty, soft wall-paper, rose-shaded lamps, flowers, a quantity of books, and a few Indian relics--such as a brass table, a phoolcarrie or two, and some painted Tillah work which he recognised as made near Lucknow. “Katie,” resumed her husband, after a pause, “I know you will be pleased to hear I’ve met a very old friend,” and he laid his hand heavily on Wynyard’s shoulder. “Let me introduce Captain Wynyard--Owen Wynyard of the Red Hussars. He and I were quartered together in Lucknow, a matter of thirty-three years ago--why, I knew him, my dear, long before I ever set eyes on _you_!”