to give you? Nothing."

This meant, as I interpreted it, that the main obstacle in the
way was Susan's poverty. And I was rich! In the excitement that
possessed me, I followed the impulse of the moment headlong, like
a child.

"While you were away from me," I said to Rothsay, "did you never
once think of your old friend? Must I remind you that I can make
Susan your wife with one stroke of my pen?" He looked at me in
silent surprise. I took my check-book from the drawer of the
table, and placed the inkstand within reach. "Susan's marriage
portion," I said, "is a matter of a line of writing, with my name
at the end of it."

He burst out with an exclamation that stopped me, just as my pen
touched the paper.

"Good heavens!" he cried, "you are thinking of that play we saw
at Rome! Are we on the stage? Are you performing the part of the
Marquis--and am I the Count?"

I was so startled by this wild allusion to the past--I recognized
with such astonishment the reproduction of one of the dramatic
situations in the play, at a crisis in his life and mine--that
the use of the pen remained suspended in my hand. For the first
time in my life I was conscious of a sensation which resembled
superstitious dread.

Rothsay recovered himself first. He misinterpreted what was