With both hands, sobbing, he clung to her, while, with a look of sick distress, Gavan tried, not too violently, to draw him from his hold on her. Eppie had not flushed. “Don’t mind,” she said, glancing at the helpless son, “he has mixed it up, you see.” And, bending on the captain eyes severe in kindly intention, like the eyes of a nurse firmly administering a potion, “You are mistaken about Gavan. It was another man who jilted me. Now let him take you up-stairs. You are ill.” But the captain still clung, she, erect in her spare young strength, showing no shrinking of repulsion. “No, no,” he said; “you always try to shield him. A woman’s way. He won your heart, and then he broke it, as he has mine. He has no heart, or he’d take you now. Give it up. Don’t come after him. Sir, how dare you! I won’t submit to this. How dare you, Sir!” Gavan had wrenched him away, and in a flare of silly passion he struck at him again and again, like a furious child. It was a wrestle with the animal, the vegetable thing, the pinioning of vicious tentacles. Mrs. Arley fluttered in helpless consternation, while Eppie, firm and adequate, assisted Gavan in securing the wildly striking hands. Caught, held, haled toward the door, the captain became, with amazing rapidity, all smiles and placidity. “Gently, gently, my dear boy. This is unseemly, you know, very childish indeed. Temper! Temper! You get it from me, no doubt--though your mother could be very spiteful at moments. I’ll come now. I’ve said my say. Well rid of him, my dear, well rid of him,” he nodded from the door. “Eppie! My dear!” cried Mrs. Arley, when father and son had disappeared. “How unutterably hateful. I am more sorry for him than for you, Eppie. His face!” Eppie was shrugging up her shoulders and straightening herself as though the captain’s grasp still threatened her. “Hateful indeed; but trivial. Gavan understands that I understand. We must make him feel that it’s nothing.” “He’s quite mad, horrible old man.” “Not quite; more uncomfortably muddled than mad. We must make him see that we think nothing of it,” Eppie repeated. She turned to Gavan, who entered as she spoke, still with his sick flush and showing a speechless inability to frame apologies. “This is what it is to have echoes, Gavan,” she said. “My little misfortunes have reached your father’s ears.” She went to him, she took his hand, she smiled at him, all her radiance recovered, a garment of warmth and ease to cover the shivering the captain’s words might have made. “Please don’t mind. I wasn’t a bit bothered, really.” He could almost have wept for the relief of her smile, her sanity. The linking of their names in such an unthinkable connection had given him the nausea qualm of a terrifying obsession. He could find now only trite words in which to tell her that she was very kind and that he was more sorry than he could say.