Importuned for an explanation, Cookie
arose from his devotional posture and put the portentous query:
"Mistah Vane, sah, be dey any propah coffin-wood on dis yere
island?"
Instantly connecting my absence with this terrible question, Aunt
Jane shrieked and fell into the arms of Mr. Tubbs. I got the story
from Cuthbert Vane, and I must say I was unpleasantly struck by the
facility with which my aunt seemed to have fallen into Mr. Tubbs's
embrace--as if with the ease of habit. Mr. Tubbs, it appeared, had
staggered a little under his fair burden, which was not to be
wondered at, for Aunt Jane is of an overflowing style of figure and
Mr. Tubbs more remarkable for brain than brawn. Violet, however,
had remained admirably calm, and exhorted Aunt Jane to remember
that whatever happened it was all for the best.
"Poor Violet," I commented. "To think that after all it didn't
happen!"
A slow flush rose to the cheeks of the beautiful youth. He
was sitting beside the hammock, where I was supposed to be
recuperating. Of course it was to please Aunt Jane that I had to
be an invalid, and she had insisted on mounting guard and reading
aloud from one of Miss Browne's books about Psycho-evolution or
something until Cuthbert Vane came along and relieved her--and me.
"It would have happened, though," said the Honorable Cuthbert
solemnly, "if it hadn't been for old Shaw.
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