So passionate a lover naturally regretted parting even for a moment from his betrothed, yet under the circumstances Andrew felt decidedly relieved when the ladies left the room, and the three Walkingshaw men drew together at the end of the table. His father passed the port to his sons and then helped himself. Andrew frowned again: he believed in never neglecting an opportunity for salutary criticism. "Oh, you're going to take port too?" "I am," said Mr. Walkingshaw, and drinking his glass straight off, filled it afresh. Andrew drew down the corners of his lips, raised his eyebrows, and glanced across at his brother; but Frank was staring abstractedly at the tablecloth. The second glass seemed to revive their father. He smacked his lips over it with something of his old gusto, threw out his chest, frowned formidably, yet with a certain complacency, and said-- "I've had to perform an unpleasant duty this afternoon, Andrew." Andrew pricked up his ears and looked sternly expectant. Yet on neither of them did the idea of an unpleasant duty seem to have a saddening effect. "That fellow Vernon has been making love to Jean. I ordered him out of the house. He's off to London again, I'm thankful to say." "Upon my word!" said Andrew. He looked as though he had been told of the attempted assassination of the President of the Court of Session. But on Frank the news produced quite a different effect. He started out of his reverie and exclaimed-- "You ordered him out? Poor Jean!" The two older and wiser men turned upon him together. "Yes, sir," said his father, "I did order him out. It would have been 'poor Jean' if I hadn't." "I'd have kicked him downstairs!" said Andrew. "You'd have had a devilish thin time if you'd tried," retorted his brother. "Vernon could take you across his knee. He's a good fellow--a deuced good fellow; he'd have made Jean a deuced good husband. Kick him downstairs? By Gad, you'd have squealed when the kicking began!" He addressed himself entirely to his brother, though he had done no more than approve of the exiling of Lucas, and he spoke with a curious bitterness. Mr. Walkingshaw struck the table with his fist, not passionately, in any disorder of mind, but sternly and effectively. "Hold your tongue," he said, and kept his eyes on him to see that he held it. Frank rose. "I beg your pardon," he said to his father, and, not looking again at his brother, walked out of the room. The two wiser heads, being then left undisturbed by the follies of youth, discussed at length and in complete accord the outrageous episode of the afternoon. CHAPTER V