They were standing so, in a silence hard to break, harder still to keep up, when Pete himself came back, like a rush of wind, and welcomed Philip with both hands.

“Sit, boy, sit,” he cried; “not that one—this aisy one. Mine? Well, if it's mine, it's yours. Not had dinner, have you? Neither have I. Any cold mate left, Kitty? No? Fry us a chop, then, darling.”

Kate had recovered herself by this time, and she went out on this errand. While she was away, Pete rattled on like a mill-race—asked about the travels, laughed about the girls, and roared about Mrs. Gorry and her ghost of Philip.

“Been buying a Nickey at Peel to-day, Phil,” he said; “good little boat—a reg'lar clipper. Aw, I'm going to start on the herrings myself next sayson sir, and what for shouldn't I? Too many of the Manx ones are giving the fishing the goby. There's life in the ould dog yet, though. Would be, anyway, if them rusty Kays would be doing anything for the industry. They're building piers enough for the trippers, but never a breakwater the size of a tooth-brush for the fishermen. That's reminding me, Phil—the boys are at me to get you to petition the Tynwald Court for better harbours. They're losing many a pound by not getting out all weathers. But if the child doesn't cry, the mother will be giving it no breast. So we mane to squall till they think in Douglas we've got spavined wind or population of the heart, or something. The men are looking to you, Phil. 'That's the boy for us,' says they. 'He's stood our friend before, and he'll do it again,' they're saying.”

Philip promised to draw up the petition, and then Mrs. Gorry came in and laid the cloth.

Kate, meanwhile, had been telling herself that she had not done well. Where was the satisfaction she had promised herself on the night of her wedding-day, when she had seen Philip from the height of a great revenge, if she allowed him to think that she also was suffering? She must be bright, she must be gay, she must seem to be happy and in love with her husband.

She returned to the hall-parlour with a smoking dish, and a face all sunshine.

“I'm afraid they're not very good, dear,” she said.

“Chut!” said Pete; “we're not particular. Phil and I have roughed it before to-day.”

She laughed merrily, and, under pretext of giving orders, disappeared again. But she had not belied the food she had set on the table. The mutton was badly fed, badly killed, badly cut, and, above all, badly cooked. To eat it was an ordeal. Philip tried hard not to let Pete see how he struggled. Pete fought valiantly to conceal his own efforts. The perspiration began to break out on their foreheads. Pete stopped in the midst of some wild talk to glance up at Philip. Philip tore away with knife and fork and answered vaguely. Then Pete looked searchingly around, rose on tiptoe, went stealthily to the kitchen door, came back, caught up a piece of yellow paper from the sideboard, whipped the chops into it from his own plate and then from Philip's, and crammed them into his jacket pocket.

“No good hurting anybody's feelings,” said he; and then Kate reappeared smiling.

“Finished already?” she said with an elevation of pitch.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Pete. “Two hungry men, Kate! You'd rather keep us a week than a fortnight, eh?”

Kate stood over the empty dish with a look of surprise. Pete winked furiously at Philip. Philip's eyes wandered about the tablecloth.

“She isn't knowing much about a hungry man's appetite, is she, Phil?”

“But,” said Kate—“but,” she stammered—“what's become of the bones?”

Pete scratched his chin through his beard. “The bones? Oh, the bones? Aw, no, we're not ateing the bones, at all.” Then with a rush, as his eyes kindled, “But the dog, you see—coorse we always give the bones to the dog—Dempster's dead on bones.”

Dempster was lying at the moment full length under the table, snoring audibly. Mrs. Gorry cleared the cloth, and Kate took up her sewing and turned towards the sideboard.

“Has any one seen my pattern?” she asked.

“Pattern?” said Pete, diving into his jacket-pocket. “D'ye say pattern,” he muttered, rummaging at his side. “Is this it?” and out came the yellow paper, crumpled and greasy, which had gone in with the chops. “Bless me, the stupid a man is now—I took it for a pipe-light.”

Kate's smile vanished, and she fled out to hide her face. Then Pete whispered to Philip, “Let's take a slieu round to the 'Plough.'”

They were leaving the house on that errand when Kate came back to the hall. “Just taking a lil walk, Kirry,” said Pete. “They're telling me it's good wonderful after dinner for a wake digestion of the chest,” and he coughed repeatedly and smote his resounding breast.

“Wait a moment and I'll go with you,” said Kate.

There was no help for it. Kate's shopping took them in the direction of the “Plough.” Old Mrs. Beatty, the innkeeper, was at the door as they passed, and when she saw Pete approaching on the inside of the three, she said aloud—meaning no mischief—“Your bread and cheese and porter are ready, as usual, Capt'n.”