Mr. Burton, still propping him up, trod a measure with fewer steps, and cast uneasy glances up the lonely road.  On their left the sea broke quietly on the beach below; on their right were one or two scattered cottages, at the doors of which an occasional figure appeared to gaze in mute astonishment at the proceedings.

“Dance, George,” said Mr. Stiles, who found his friend rather an encumbrance.

“Hs’h!  Stop!” cried the frantic Mr. Burton, as he caught sight of a woman’s figure bidding farewell in a lighted doorway.

Mr. Stiles replied with a stentorian roar, and Mr. Burton, clinging despairingly to his jigging friend lest a worse thing should happen, cast an imploring glance at Mrs. Dutton as they danced by.  The evening was still light enough for him to see her face, and he piloted the corybantic Mr. Stiles the rest of the way home in a mood which accorded but ill with his steps.

His manner at breakfast next morning was so offensive that Mr. Stiles, who had risen fresh as a daisy and been out to inhale the air on the cliffs, was somewhat offended.

“You go down and see her,” he said, anxiously.  “Don’t lose a moment; and explain to her that it was the sea-air acting on an old sunstroke.”

“She ain’t a fool,” said Mr. Burton, gloomily.

He finished his breakfast in silence, and, leaving the repentant Mr. Stiles sitting in the doorway with a pipe, went down to the widow’s to make the best explanation he could think of on the way.  Mrs. Dutton’s fresh-coloured face changed as he entered the shop, and her still good eyes regarded him with scornful interrogation.

“I—­saw you last night,” began Mr. Burton, timidly.

“I saw you, too,” said Mrs. Dutton.  “I couldn’t believe my eyesight at first.”

“It was an old shipmate of mine,” said Mr. Burton.  “He hadn’t seen me for years, and I suppose the sight of me upset ’im.”

“I dare say,” replied the widow; “that and the Cock and Flowerpot, too.  I heard about it.”

“He would go,” said the unfortunate.

“You needn’t have gone,” was the reply.

“I ‘ad to,” said Mr. Burton, with a gulp; “he—­he’s an old officer o’ mine, and it wouldn’t ha’ been discipline for me to refuse.”

“Officer?” repeated Mrs. Dutton.

“My old admiral,” said Mr. Burton, with a gulp that nearly choked him.  “You’ve heard me speak of Admiral Peters?”

“Admiral?” gasped the astonished widow.

“What, a-carrying on like that?”

“He’s a reg’lar old sea-dog,” said Mr. Burton.  “He’s staying with me, but of course ’e don’t want it known who he is.  I couldn’t refuse to ’ave a drink with ’im.  I was under orders, so to speak.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Mrs. Dutton, softening.  “Fancy him staying with you!”

“He just run down for the night, but I expect he’ll be going ’ome in an hour or two,” said Mr. Burton, who saw an excellent reason now for hastening his guest’s departure.