“If it ’ad been a darning-needle now—” began Mrs. Kybird. “All right,” said the desperate Mr. Silk, “’ave it your own way. Let ’Melia marry ’im—I don’t care—I give ’er up.” “Teddy!” said Mr. Kybird, in a shocked voice. “Teddy!” Mr. Silk thrust him fiercely to one side and passed raging through the shop. The sound of articles falling in all directions attested to his blind haste, and the force with which he slammed the shop-door was sufficient evidence of his state of mind. “Well, upon my word,” said the staring Mr. Kybird; “of all the outrageyous—” “Never mind ’im,” said his wife, who was sitting in the easy chair, distributing affectionate smiles between her daughter and the startled Mr. Nugent. “Make ’er happy, Jack, that’s all I arsk. She’s been a good gal, and she’ll make a good wife. I’ve seen how it was between you for some time.” “So ’ave I,” said Mr. Kybird. He shook hands warmly with Mr. Nugent, and, patting that perturbed man on the back, surveyed him with eyes glistening with approval. “It’s a bit rough on Teddy, isn’t it?” inquired Mr. Nugent, anxiously; “besides—” “Don’t you worry about ’im,” said Mr. Kybird, affectionately. “He ain’t worth it.” “I wasn’t,” said Mr. Nugent, truthfully. The situation had developed so rapidly that it had caught him at a disadvantage. He had a dim feeling that, having been the cause of Miss Kybird’s losing one young man, the most elementary notions of chivalry demanded that he should furnish her with another. And this idea was clearly uppermost in the minds of her parents. He looked over at Amelia and with characteristic philosophy accepted the position. “We shall be the handsomest couple in Sunwich,” he said, simply. “Bar none,” said Mr. Kybird, emphatically. The stout lady in the chair gazed at the couple fondly. “It reminds me of our wedding,” she said, softly. “What was it Tom Fletcher said, father? Can you remember?” [Illustration: “I wonder what the governor’ll say.”] “’Arry Smith, you mean,” corrected Mr. Kybird. “Tom Fletcher said something, I’m sure,” persisted his wife. “He _did_,” said Mr. Kybird, grimly, “and I pretty near broke ’is ’ead for it. ’Arry Smith is the one you’re thinking of.” Mrs. Kybird after a moment’s reflection admitted that he was right, and, the chain of memory being touched, waxed discursive about her own wedding and the somewhat exciting details which accompanied it. After which she produced a bottle labelled “Port wine” from the cupboard, and, filling four glasses, celebrated the occasion in a befitting but sober fashion. “This,” said Mr. Nugent, as he sat on his bed that night to take his boots off, “this is what comes of trying to make everybody happy and comfortable with a little fun. I wonder what the governor’ll say.” CHAPTER IX