He spent the evening in the billiard-room of the Golden Fleece, and did not return until late. A light in the room upstairs and a shadow on the blind informed him that Mrs. Chinnery had retired. He stepped in quietly, and closed the door behind him. Mr. Truefitt, a picture of woe, was sitting in his usual place at the corner of the stove, and a supper-table, loaded with food, was untouched. “Gone?” inquired the captain, scenting disaster. “Some time ago,” said Mr. Truefitt. “They wouldn’t stay to supper. I wish you had been here to persuade them.” “I wish I had,” said the captain, untruthfully. He gave utterance to a faint sigh in token of sympathy with Mr. Truefitt’s evident distress, and drew a chair to the table. He shook his head, and with marvellous accuracy, considering that his gaze was fastened on a piece of cold beef, helped himself to a wedge of steak-pie. He ate with an appetite, and after pouring out and drinking a glass of ale gazed again at the forlorn figure of Mr. Truefitt. “Words?” he breathed, in a conspirator’s whisper. The other shook his head. “No; they were very polite,” he replied, slowly. The captain nearly emitted a groan. He checked it with two square inches of pie-crust. “A misunderstanding,” said Mr. Truefitt. The captain said “Ah!” It was all he could say for the moment. “A misunderstanding,” said the other. “I misled Mrs. Willett,” he added, in a tense whisper. “Good heavens!” said the captain. “She had always understood—from me,” continued Mr. Truefitt, “that when I married Susanna would go. I always thought she would. Anybody who knew Susanna would have thought so. You would—wouldn’t you?” “In the ordinary way—yes,” said the captain; “but circumstances alter cases.” “It came out—in conversation,” said the hapless Mr. Truefitt, “that Susanna wouldn’t dream of leaving me. It also came out that Mrs. Willett wouldn’t dream of letting Cecilia marry me till she does. What’s to be done?” The captain took a slice of beef to assist thought. “You must have patience,” he said, sagely. “Patience!” said Mr. Truefitt, with unusual heat. “Patience be d—d! I’m fifty-two! And Cecilia’s thirty-nine!” “Time flies!” said the captain, who could think of nothing else to say. Mr. Truefitt looked at him almost savagely. Then he sank back in his chair. “It’s a pity Susanna doesn’t get married again,” he said, slowly. “So far as I can see, that’s the only way out of it. Cecilia said so to me just as she was leaving.” “Did she?” said the captain. He looked thoughtful, and Mr. Truefitt watched him anxiously. For some time he seemed undecided, and then, with the resolute air of a man throwing appearances to the winds, he drew an uncut tongue toward him and cut off a large slice. CHAPTER VIII