he least he could do," snapped the servant, "knocking folks into
orspitals with his fine gent airs. I sawr him out of the winder while
you was in the shop, and there he spoke law-de-daw to a brat of a boy as
ought to be in gaol, seeing he smoked a cigar stump an' him but a
ten-year-old guttersnipe. Ses I, oh, a painted maypole you is, I ses,
with a face as hard as bath bricks. A bad un you are, ses I."

"No, Deborah, you are wrong. Mr. Hay is my friend."

"Never shall he be my pretty's friend," declared Debby, obstinately,
"for if all the wickedness in him 'ud come out in his face, pimples
would be as thick as smuts in a London fog. No, Mr. Beecot, call him not
what you do call him, meaning friend, for Judas and Julius Cezar ain't
in it with his Belzebubness."

Beecot saw it was vain to stop this chatterer, so he turned to talk in
whispers to Sylvia, while Debby murmured on like a brook, only she
spoke loud enough at times to drown the whispering of the lovers.

"Sylvia," said Paul, softly, "I want you to send your father to me."

"Yes, Paul. Why do you wish to see him?"

"Because he must be told of our love. I don't think he will be so hard
as you think, and I am ashamed of not having told him before. I like to
act honorably, and I fear, Sylvia darling, we have not been quite fair
to your father."

"I think so, too, Paul, and I intended to speak when we went home. But
give me your address, so that if we go away unexpectedly I'll be able to
write to you."

Beecot gave her his Bloomsbury address, and also that of his old home at
Wargrove in Essex. "Write care of my mother," he said, "and then my
father won't get the letter."

"Would he be angry if he knew?" asked the girl, timidly.

Paul laughed to himself at the thought of the turkey-cock's rage. "I
think he would, dearest," said he, "but that does not matter. Be true to
me and I'll be true to you."

Here the nurse came to turn the visitors away on the plea that Paul had
talked quite enough. Debby flared up, but became meek when Sylvia lifted
a reproving finger. Then Paul asked Debby to seek his Bloomsbury
lodgings and bring to him any letters that might be waiting for him. "I
expect to hear from my mother, and must write and tell her of my
accident," said he. "I don't want to trouble Mr. Hay, but you, Debby--"

"Bless you, Mr. Beecot, it ain't no trouble," said the servant,
cheerfully, "and better me nor that 'aughty peacock, as ain't to be
trusted, say w