But at this point his bride brought his reminiscences to a close by requesting him, in a voice of loathing, to go away.

“Well, if there ain’t anything I can do, I was thinking Orde and I might crack a bottle,” he said. “Very willing to remain, however. Swore I’d cherish you, didn’t I? Nugent Fotherby is not the man to go back on his word. Ask anyone!”

“Go away, go away!” screamed Ianthe. “Do you wish to kill me?”

Seeing that Sir Nugent was about to assure her that he had no such desire, Tom thrust him out of the cabin. “I’d better go too,” he said, with an uneasy glance at Ianthe. “Unless you’d like me to stay, Phoebe?”

“No, no, there’s nothing for you to do here. There, there, Edmund! Let Phoebe tuck you up warmly, and you’ll soon be better!”

“Well, call, if you need me,” said Tom. “I won’t go out of earshot.”

He then withdrew, in the comfortable conviction that both sufferers would probably fall asleep, leaving Phoebe nothing to do but to watch over their slumbers. He was astonished, and considerably concerned, when he heard her calling to him from the foot of the companion-way less than an hour later, and learned that Edmund was very much worse. He saw that Phoebe was looking pale herself, and exclaimed: “I say, Phoebe, you aren’t feeling seasick, are you?”

“I? No, indeed! I have no time to be seasick!” she replied acidly. “Don’t come down! I want you to ask that wretched man if I may carry Edmund into the other cabin. I believe it is his, but he can’t want it, after all. And, Tom, try if you can come by a hot brick! Edmund shivers all the time, and do what I will I can’t get him warm.”

“Good God, he must be pretty bad! You don’t mean to say he’s still sick?”

“Not actually sick, no, but those dreadful paroxysms go on, and it hurts him so, poor little man, that he can’t help but cry. I’ve never seen a child so utterly knocked-up, and I’ve helped to nurse my sisters often and often. It was wicked to have brought him on such a journey! She must have known how it would be! She did know, and all she will say is that he could be well if he would but make an effort! She makes no effort! She is feeling far too ill herself, and her sensibility is so exquisite that she can never bear to be near him when he is ailing! It gives her palpitations. She has them now, so he must be removed from her cabin. Tom, if I could be taken back to Dover on a magic carpet I would not go! No! Or leave that child until I see him safe in Salford’s charge! Whatever his sentiments may be towards Edmund he cannot be more unfeeling than that creature!”

“Steady, steady!” said Tom. “Throwing your tongue too much, my girl!”

She gave an unsteady laugh, brushing her hand across her brow. “I know. But only to you, Tom! I’ve been running mute enough, I promise you.” She raised her finger suddenly, listening, and called: “I’m coming, darling!”

Not his greatest enemy could have denied that Sir Nugent was as compliant as he was amiable. Upon hearing what was required, he instantly went below to beg Phoebe to consider his cabin her own. He was very much shocked by Edmund’s appearance, and said: “Poor little fellow! Burned to the socket!” so many times that it irritated Ianthe’s nerves. Informed of this, he withdrew his attention from Edmund, and said solicitously: “Still a trifle out of sorts, my love? Now, see if I don’t tell you something that’ll do you good! With this wind we shall be in Calais in only four hours!”

“Four hours!” Ianthe said, in a hollow voice. “Oh, how could you be so brutal as to tell me? Four more hours of this! I shall never survive it. My head! oh, my head!”

“What’s to be done?” whispered Sir Nugent in Phoebe’s ear. “Seems to be bellows to mend with her. Devilish distressing: wouldn’t have had it happen for the world!”

“I expect,” said Phoebe, somewhat woodenly, “that she will feel better when she is alone. Lady Ianthe, will you tell me where I may find a nightshirt for Edmund? Were they packed in your trunk? May I look for them there?”

But Ianthe had been unable to bring away any of Edmund’s raiment without arousing suspicion in her parents’ household.

Phoebe looked wonderingly at the smart new trunk, at a pile of bandboxes, and dress-boxes. “But—”

“I had to purchase everything new! And in such haste that I was quite distracted,” said Ianthe, in failing accents.

“Told her la’ship to rig herself out in the first style of elegance, and have everything sent to my house,” explained Sir Nugent. “Good notion, don’t you agree?”

Her ladyship, in fact, had forgotten, in an orgy of expensive shopping, to provide for her son’s needs.

Removed to the smaller cabin, tucked up in its berth, with a champagne bottle full of hot water produced by Tom, Edmund seemed to grow easier. Phoebe had the satisfaction presently of seeing him drop asleep, and was about to snatch a little rest herself when Sir Nugent came to beg the favour of her attendance on Ianthe. Her la’ship, he whispered, was in devilish queer stirrups, and wished for assistance in an affair of too much delicacy to be mentioned.

Mystified, Phoebe went back to the larger cabin, leaving Sir Nugent to maintain a watch over his stepson. The affair of delicacy proved merely to be a matter of untieing Ianthe’s stay-laces, but one glance at her was enough to inform Phoebe that Sir Nugent had not exaggerated her condition. She looked to be in extremely queer stirrups, and when Phoebe felt her pulse she discovered it to be tumultuous.

Phoebe was absent from Edmund’s side for a considerable period. Unfortunately he woke up while she was away, and no sooner saw Sir Nugent than he repudiated him. Sir Nugent remonstrated with him, pointing out that for Edmund to order him out of his own cabin was coming it a trifle too strong. However, when he heard himself apostrophized as a Bad Man he realized that Edmund was lightheaded, and strove to reassure him. His efforts failed. During his late agony Edmund had had no leisure to consider anything but his body’s ills. It was otherwise now. No longer racked by paroxysms, but only a very small boy pitchforked into nightmare, a pressing need presented itself to him. His face puckered. “I want my Button!” he sobbed.

“Eh?” said Sir Nugent.

Edmund, turning his face into the pillow, repeated his desire in muffled but passionate accents.

“Want a button, do you?” said Sir Nugent. “Now, don’t cry, dear boy! Seems a devilish queer thing to want, but—which button?”

“My Button!” said Edmund, in a perfect storm of sobs.

“Yes, yes, precisely so!” said Sir Nugent hastily. “Be calm, dear boy! I assure you there’s no need to put yourself in a taking! If you would but tell me—”

“Button, Button, Button!” wept Edmund.

Tom, looking into the cabin five minutes later to ask Phoebe if all was well, found a distressing scene in progress, bitter sounds of grief issuing from the blankets under which Edmund had wholly retired, and his harassed stepfather feverishly turning out the pockets of a small pair of nankeen pantaloons.

“Good God, what’s the matter?” Tom demanded, coming into the cabin, and shutting the door. “Where’s Miss Marlow?”

“With her la’ship. Don’t care to fetch her away!” said Sir Nugent distractedly. “Left me to mind Edmund! Extraordinary boy! Took me for a bad man: doesn’t seem to know me at all! Now he wants a button.”

“Well, give him a button!” said Tom, limping to the berth, and trying to draw the blanket back. “Hi, Edmund, what’s all this?”

“I—want—my—Button!” wailed Edmund, diving deeper into the blankets.

“Never knew such a cork-brained boy!” fumed Sir Nugent. “Can’t get another word out of him. It’s my belief he hasn’t brought it with him. What’s more, I don’t see that it would be a bit of use to him if I could find it. Well, I put it to you, Orde, would you want a button in such a case?”

“Oh, children often have a liking for odd toys!” said Tom. “I did myself. Give him one of your own buttons!”

“Dash it, I haven’t got any!” A dreadful possibility reared its head. “You don’t mean cut one off?”

“Lord, why not?” said Tom impatiently.

Sir Nugent reeled under the shock, but rallied. “You cut one off!” he countered.

“Not me!” replied Tom crudely. “This is the only suit of clothes I have, thanks to you! Besides, I’m not the boy’s papa-in-law!”

“Well, he won’t have it I am either, so that doesn’t signify. To own the truth, I’d as lief I wasn’t. Dashed embarrassing, you must agree, to have a son-in-law telling everyone I’m a bad man.”

Tom, not thinking it worth while to reply to this, merely adjured him to find a suitable button. Sighing heavily, Sir Nugent unstrapped one of his numerous portmanteaux. It took him a little time to decide which of his coats he would be least likely to need in the immediate future, and when he made up his mind to the sacrifice of an elegant riding-coat, and started to saw off one of its buttons with his pocket-knife it was easy to see that the operation cost him considerable pain. He was slightly cheered by the reflection that the presentation of so large and handsome a button must raise him in Edmund’s esteem. Advancing to the berth, he said winningly: “No need to cry any more, dear boy! Here’s your button!”

The sobs ceased abruptly; Edmund emerged from the blankets, tearstained but joyful. “Button, Button!” he cried, stretching out his arms. Sir Nugent put the button into his hand.

There was a moment’s silence, while Edmund, staring at this trophy, realized to the full Sir Nugent’s perfidy. To blinding disappointment was added just rage. His eyes blazing through his tears he hurled the button from him, and casting himself face downward gave way to his emotions.