taste of the wine, however, came the consoling reflection that
Iris as a scullery-maid might not tickle the fancy of the dotard who
had undertaken to provide fifty thousand pounds for the new
partnership. And she had promised--that was everything. His lack of
diplomacy was obvious even to himself, but he had won where a man of
finer temperament might have failed. Now, he must rush the wedding.
Dickey Bulmer's Lancashire canniness might stipulate for cash on
delivery as the essence of the marriage contract. Not a penny would
the old miser part with until he was sure of the girl.

So David Verity, having much to occupy his mind, lingered over the
second glass of port, for this was a Sunday dinner, served at mid-day.
At last he closed his eyes for his customary nap; but sleep was not to
be wooed just then; instead of dozing, he felt exceedingly wide awake.
Indeed, certain disquieting calculations were running through his
brain, and he yielded forthwith to their insistence. Taking a small
notebook from his pocket, he jotted down an array of figures. He was
so absorbed in their analysis that he did not see Iris walk listlessly
across the lawn that spread its summer greenery in front of the
dining-room windows. And that was an ill thing for David. The sight
of the girl at that instant meant a great deal to him.

He did happen to look out, a second too late.

Even then, he might have caught a glimpse of Iris's pink muslin skirt
disappearing behind a clump of rhododendrons, were not his shifty eyes
screwed up in calculation--or perchance, the gods blinded him in behalf
of one who was named after Juno's bright messenger.

"Yes, that's it," he was thinking. "I must wheedle Dickey into the
bank to-morrow. A word from 'im, an' they'll all grovel, d--n 'em!"

The door opened.

"Captain Coke to see you, sir," said a servant.

"Send 'im in; bring 'im in 'ere."

The memorandum book disappeared; Verity's hearty greeting was that of a
man who had not a care in the world. His visitor's description was
writ large on him by the sea. No one could possibly mistake Captain
Coke for any other species of captain than that of master mariner. He
was built on the lines of a capstan, short and squat and powerful.
Though the weather was hot, he wore a suit of thick navy-blue serge
that would have served his needs within the Arctic Circle. It clung
tightly to his rounded contours; there was a purple line on his red
brows that ma