I've tried to like you, sir--and I'm bound in candour to own
that I've failed to find a bond of union between us. Maybe, this frank
confession annoys you."
"Far from it! You are going straight to your subject at last, if I may
venture to say so."
The Irish lord's good-humour had completely disappeared by this time.
His handsome face hardened, and his voice rose. The outbreak of jealous
feeling, which motives honourable to himself had hitherto controlled,
now seized on its freedom of expression. His language betrayed (as on
some former occasions) that association with unworthy companions, which
had been one of the evil results of his adventurous life.
"Maybe I'll go straighter than you bargain for," he replied; "I'm in
two humours about you. My common-sense tells me that you're my wife's
friend. And the best of friends do sometimes quarrel, don't they? Well,
sir, you deny it, on your own account. I find myself forced back on my
other humour--and it's a black humour, I can tell you. You may be my
wife's friend, my fine fellow, but you're something more than that. You
have always been in love with her--and you're in love with her now.
Thank you for your visit, but don't repeat it.
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