What was the Admiral to do? Was he to leave the flag up, contrary to all precedent? That was unthinkable. On the other hand was he to offer himself as a target for Mrs. Poskett’s sarcasms? Yet again, was he to show the white feather in the presence of the enemy? No! He’d be hanged if he would. He slapped himself on the chest to give himself courage, and came down the steps. "Cheer up, my hearty!" he cried; and then he hummed what he thought was the tune of "Oh! dear! what can the matter be?" and began hauling down the flag. Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had sidled casually along the railings, as if she were going nowhere in particular and didn’t mind when she got there. But she timed herself carefully, so that she was close to Sir Peter just as he was entangled in the lines. "Admiral!" she said, very gently. "Ma’am?" growled he, continuing to extricate himself. "Why do you force me to address you?" she asked reproachfully, and with great dignity. Sir Peter was taken aback. "Me! Force you! Gobblessmysoul!" he exclaimed, "Well, I’m—" "For your own good," said Mrs. Poskett, solemnly. "Oh, Sir Peter, you was King of the Walk on Friday. Now Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn will usurp that title." This fetched him. He left the flag lying at the foot of the mast, and came out into the open. "Will he so, Ma’am!" he said, fiercely. "So he will!" Having enticed him from behind the security of his railings, Mrs. Poskett knew he would follow wherever she led him. She led him at once towards the elm. "The Walk says you have lowered the prestige of His Majesty’s Navy." The Admiral had indeed turned to go back; but this brought him to her side. "Dash it and hang it, Ma’am! what do you mean?" "Well, you know what I mean," said Mrs. Poskett, with pretty confusion. "The entire Walk saw you press me to your heart!" The Admiral was helpless. His own recollections of what had happened on Saturday were extremely vague. What with the rescue of the cat and the sudden appearance of Caroline Thring, together with the subsequent escape of Jack, he had lost all sense of actualities. Moreover, it was impossible for him to accuse Mrs. Poskett of having embraced him. A gentleman does not do such things. So he could only stammer weakly, "I didn’t, did I?" Mrs. Poskett flashed at him indignantly. "The entire Walk witnessed the outrage, and the entire Walk is indignant that nothing has come of it." "Gobblessmysoul!" muttered the Admiral. Mrs. Poskett followed up her advantage. "’Oh, how unsailor-like!’"—that is what the Walk says: "’How unsailor-like!’" Imagine the stab. He, Admiral Sir Peter Antrobus, with more than forty years of service in His Majesty’s Navy to his credit; the hero of Copenhagen; the friend of Nelson; he, who had given an eye for his country—unsailor-like! He pushed his wig back and mopped his brow. "It doesn’t say that!" he murmured, horrified.