to form a high opinion of me before this
week is out," said Thurston, laughing.

"You--you--you graceless villain, you," cried the commodore in a
rage--"to think that I had such confidence in you, sir; defended you
upon all occasions, sir; refused to believe in your villainy, sir;
refused to close my doors against you, sir. Yes, sir; and should have
continued to do so, but for last night's affair."

"Last night's affair! I protest, sir, I do not in the least understand
you?"

"Oh! you don't. You don't understand that after the lecture last
evening, in leaving the place, Jacquelina thrust her arm through
yours--no; I mean through Grim's, mistaking him for you, and said--what
she never would have said, had there not been an understanding between
you."

Thurston's face was now the picture of astonishment and perplexity. The
commodore seemed to mistake it for a look of consternation and detected
guilt, for he continued:

"And now, sir, I suppose you understand what is to follow. Do you see
that door? It leads straight into the hall, which leads directly through
the front portal out into the lawn, and on to the highway--that is your
road, sir. Good-morning."

And the commodore thumped down his stick and left the room--the image of
righteous indignation.

Thurston nodded, smiled slightly, drew his tablets from his pocket, tore
a leaf out, took his pencil, laid the paper upon the corner of the
mantel-piece, wrote a few lines, folded the note, and concealed it in
his hand as the door opened, and admitted Mrs. Waugh, Marian and
Jacquelina. There was a telegraphic glance between the elder lady and
the young man.

That of Mrs. Waugh said:

"Do have pity on the fools, and go, Thurston."

That of Thurston said:

"I am going, Mrs. Waugh, and without laughing, if I can help it."

Then he picked up his shooting cap, bowed to Jacquelina, shook hands
with Mrs. Waugh, and pressing Marian's palm, left within it the note
that he had written, took up his game bag and gun, and departed.

CHAPTER XXIII.

SANS SOUCI'S LAST FUN.

"The inconceivable idiots!" said Thurston, as he strode on through the
park of Luckenough, "to fancy that any one with eyes, heart and brain,
could possibly fall in love with the 'Will-o'-the-wisp' Jacquelina, or
worse, that giglet, Angelica; when he sees Marian! Marian, whose least
sunny tress is dearer to me than are all the living creatures in the
world besides. Marian, for whose possessi