A natural instinct led him to sit down in order to consider his ways. “What the deuce!” he exclaimed. “Confound the fellow! What does it all mean?” Then his logical mind began to reflect, to deliberate, to weigh his own case as relentlessly as if it was the case of a stranger. The result was a decision in favour of his wife’s and his daughter’s position. From their standpoint he had been unreasonable and inconsistent. And he could put in no demurrer; for the only objection he was able to make lay in that covert dislike to the young man for which he was unable to give any reason that would not be more humiliating than simple submission. He had reached this point when a negro slave, dressed from head to foot in spotless white linen, entered the room. He was carrying a platter containing a sirloin of roast beef, and the appetising odour, blended with the fragrance of the fresh peas,--boiled with the sprig of mint they call for,--stimulated the judge to the necessary action. He rose promptly and went to the sitting room in the rear. At the door he heard Sapphira and her mother talking, but they were instantly silent as he entered. That was a symptom he did not regard. He knew the tactics that were always successful, and with a smile and a courtly bow he offered his arm to Mrs. Bloommaert. The courtesy was made invincible by the glance that accompanied it--a glance that was explanation, apology, and admiration sent swiftly and indisputably to her heart. Words would have been halting and impotent in comparison, and they were ignored. The only ones spoken referred to the waiting meal. “Dinner is served, Carlita,” and Carlita, with an answering glance of pardon and affection, proudly took the arm offered her. Ere they reached the door Sapphira was remembered, and her father stretched backward his hand for her clasp. Thus they entered the dining room together, and almost at the same moment they were joined by Christopher. He was hot and sunburned but full of quiet satisfaction. He laid his arm across his mother’s neck as he passed her, and taking a seat next to his sister clasped her little hand lovingly under the table. With beaming eyes she acknowledged this token of his affection, and then touching a piece of pale blue ribbon tied through a buttonhole of his jacket, she asked: “Pray, Chris, who is now your patron saint? Last year it was good St. Nicholas, and orange was all your cry. Why have you forsaken your old patron and changed your colours?”