before him; he leaves the girls to pine on the
stem, and he bothers his uncle to know the reason why! I pity the poor
unfortunate women. Men were made of flesh and blood, and plenty of it,
too, in my time. They're made of machinery now."

"I can only repeat, sir, I am sorry to have offended you," said George.

"Pooh! pooh! you needn't look at me in that languishing way if you are,"
retorted the admiral. "Stick to your wine, and I'll forgive you. Your
good health, George. I'm glad to see you again at St. Crux. Look at that
plateful of sponge-cakes! The cook has sent them up in honor of your
return. We can't hurt her feelings, and we can't spoil our wine.
Here!"--The admiral tossed four sponge-cakes in quick succession down
the accommodating throats of the dogs. "I am sorry, George," the old
gentleman gravely proceeded; "I am really sorry you haven't got your eye
on one of those nice girls. You don't know what a loss you're inflicting
on yourself; you don't know what trouble and mortification you're
causing me by this shilly-shally conduct of yours."

"If you would only allow me to explain myself, sir, you would view my
conduct in a totally different light. I am ready to marry to-morrow, if
the lady will have me."

"The devil you are! So you have got a lady in your eye, after all?
Why in Heaven's name couldn't you tell me so before? Never mind, I'll
forgive you everything, now I know you have laid your hand on a wife.
Fill your glass again. Here's her health in a bumper. By-the-by, who is
she?"

"I'll tell you directly, admiral. When we began this conversation, I
mentioned that I was a little anxious--"

"She's not one of my round dozen of nice girls--aha, Master George, I
see that in your face already! Why are you anxious?"

"I am afraid you will disapprove of my choice, sir."

"Don't beat about the bush! How the deuce can I say whether I disapprove
or not, if you won't tell me who she is?"

"She is the eldest daughter of Andrew Vanstone, of Combe-Raven."

"Who!!!"

"Miss Vanstone, sir."

The admiral put down his glass of wine untasted.

"You're right, George," he said. "I do disapprove of your choice
--strongly disapprove of it."

"Is it the misfortune of her birth, sir, that you object to?"

"God forbid! the misfortune of her birth is not her fault, poor thing.
You know as well as I do, George, what I object to."

"You object to her sister?"

"Certainly! The most liberal man alive might object to h