The Captain was crestfallen when these things were brought to his mind. Mrs Bowood gave him no time for further reflection. Rightly assuming that the young people were not far away, she opened a door leading to an inner room, and there found them in close proximity to each other on the sofa. ‘Come along, you naughty children,’ she said, ‘and receive the sentence due for your many crimes.’ They came forward shamefacedly enough. Master Charles looked a little paler than ordinary; on Elsie’s face there was a lovely wild-rose blush. Mr Brooker rose to his feet, ran the fingers of one hand lightly through his wig, and posed himself in his favourite attitude. He felt that just at this point a little slow music might have been effectively introduced. The Captain also rose to his feet. Charley came forward quickly and grasped one of the old man’s hands in both of his. ‘Uncle!’ he said, looking straight into his face through eyes that swam in tears. For a moment or two the Captain tried to look fierce, but failed miserably. Then bending his white head, and laying a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, he murmured in a broken voice: ‘M—m—my boy!’ * * * * * Sir Frederick Pinkerton was slowly pacing the sunny south terrace, smoking one cigarette after another in a way that with him was very unusual. He was only half satisfied with himself—only half satisfied with the way he had treated Lady Dimsdale. The instincts of a gentleman were at work within him, and those instincts whispered to him that he had acted as no true gentleman ought to act. And yet his feelings were very bitter. Had not Lady Dimsdale rejected him?—had she not scorned him?—had she not treated him with a contumely that was only half veiled? Still more bitter was the thought that if he acted as his conscience told him he ought to act, he would release Lady Dimsdale from the promise he had imposed on her, and stand quietly on one side, while another snatched away the prize which, only a few short hours ago, he had fondly deemed would be all his own. But this was a sacrifice which he felt that he was not magnanimous enough to make. ‘I have done the man a great—an inestimable—service,’ he said to himself more than once; ‘let that suffice. They are not lovesick children—he and Lady Dimsdale—that they should cry for the moon, and vow there is no happiness in life because they can’t obtain it. Why should I trouble myself about their happiness? They would not trouble themselves about mine.’ It was thus he argued with himself, and the longer he argued the more angry he became. He was so thoroughly anxious to convince himself that he was right, and he found himself unable to do so.