"I may be mistaken," said Dacres, modestly.

"Mistaken? Why, old chap, you're mad. Marriage? Good Lord! don't you
know nothing can abrogate that? Of course, in case of crime, one can
get a divorce; but there is no other way. Seven years? By Jove! A good
idea that. Why, man, if that were so, the kingdom would be
depopulated. Husbands running off from wives, and wives from husbands,
to pass the required seven years abroad. By Jove! You see, too,
there's another thing, my boy. Marriage is a sacrament, and you've not
only got to untie the civil knot, but the clerical one, my boy. No,
no; there's no help for it. You gave your word, old chap, 'till death
do us part,' and you're in for it."

At this Dacres said nothing; it appeared to dispel his project from
his mind. He relapsed into a sullen sort of gloom, and remained so for
some time. At last he spoke:

"Hawbury!"

"Well?"

"Have you found out who that fellow is?"

"What fellow?"

"Why that yellow Italian that goes prowling around after my wife."

"Oh yes; I heard something or other today."

"What was it?"