Tom bows low—­his lordship does him too much honour:  the cunning fellow knows that his fortune is made in Aberalva, if he chooses to work it out:  but he humbly slips into the rear, for Frank has to be supported, not being over popular; and the Lieutenant may “turn crusty,” unless he has his lordship to himself, before the gaze of assembled Aberalva.

Scoutbush progresses up the street, bowing right and left, and stopped half-a-dozen times by red-cloaked old women, who curtsey under his nose, and will needs inform him how they knew his grandfather, or nursed his uncle, or how his “dear mother, God rest her soul, gave me this very cloak as I have on,” and so forth; till Scoutbush comes to the conclusion that they are a very loving and lovable set of people—­as indeed they are—­and his heart smites him somewhat for not having seen more of them in past years.

No sooner is Thurnall released, than he is off to the yacht as fast as oars can take him, and in Claude’s arms.

“Now!” (after all salutations and inquiries have been gone through), “let me introduce you to Major Campbell.”  And Tom was presented to a tall and thin personage, who sat at the cabin table, bending over a microscope.

“Excuse my rising,” said he, holding out a left hand, for the right was busy.  “A single jar will give me ten minutes’ work to do again.  I am delighted to meet you:  Mellot has often spoken to me of you as a man who has seen more, and faced death more carelessly, than most men.”

“Mellot flatters, sir.  Whatsoever I have done, I have given up being careless about death; for I have some one beside myself to live for.”

“Married at last? has Diogenes found his Aspasia?” cried Claude.

Tom did not laugh.

“Since my brothers died, Claude, the old gentleman has only me to look to.  You seem to be a naturalist, sir.”

“A dabbler,” said the major, with eye and hand still busy.

“I ought not to begin our acquaintance by doubting your word:  but these things are no dabbler’s work;” and Tom pointed to some exquisite photographs of minute corallines, evidently taken under the microscope.

“They are Mellot’s.”

“Mellot turned man of science?  Impossible!”

“No; only photographer.  I am tired of painting nature clumsily, and then seeing a sun-picture out-do all my efforts—­so I am turned photographer, and have made a vow against painting for three years and a day.”

“Why, the photographs only give you light and shade.”

“They will give you colour, too, before seven years are over—­and that is more than I can do, or any one else.  No; I yield to the new dynasty.  The artist’s occupation is gone henceforth, and the painter’s studio, like ‘all charms, must fly, at the mere touch of cold philosophy.’  So Major Campbell prepares the charming little cockyoly birds, and I call in the sun to immortalise them.”

“And perfectly you are succeeding!  They are quite new to me, recollect.  When I left Melbourne, the art had hardly risen there above guinea portraits of bearded desperadoes, a nugget in one hand and a L50 note in the other:  but this is a new, and what a forward step for science!”