"Becky, Weir Penrhyn is my--" And then he stopped. The ludicrous side
of the matter had never appealed to him, but he was none the less
conscious of how ridiculous the thing would appear to another.

"Your what? Your wife? Are you married to her already, and do you want
me to break it to the old gentleman? What kind of a character is he?
Shall I go armed?"

"She is not my wife, thank God! If she were--"

"For heaven's sake, Harold, explain yourself. Can it be possible that
Miss Penrhyn is like too many other women?"

Dartmouth sprang to his feet, his face white to the lips.

"How dare you say such a thing?" he exclaimed. "If it were any other
man but you, I'd blow out his brains."

Hollington got up from the chair he had taken and, grasping Dartmouth
by the shoulders, threw him back into his chair.

"Now look here, Harold," he said; "let us have no more damned
nonsense. If you will indulge in lugubrious hints which have but
one meaning, you must expect the consequences. I refuse to listen to
another word unless you come out and speak plain English."

He resumed his seat, and Dartmouth clasped his hands behind his head
and stared moodily at the fire. In a few moments he turned his eyes
and fixed them on Hollington.