On the evening of the third day he sent for Laura Stanbridge. He made her acquainted with all that had passed at Broxbridge. She laughed at him, and this made him perfectly furious.
“You make a jest of my misfortunes,” cried he. “It’s just like women—they are always pleased when they hear of a friend’s mishap. I am sick of the world—sick of you and of everybody.”
“I dare say you are, but who have you to blame but yourself? You imagine every woman must of necessity be smitten with you. You shouldn’t be so vain, my young spark.”
“Don’t preach to me, you fool. I’m not disposed to listen to your lectures. I have had enough of them.”
“Very well, that being so, “I’ll make no further observations,” replied Miss Stanbridge, with perfect composure.
“What am I to do?” he inquired, after a pause. “Tell me what I am to do. How can I be revenged?”
“I am not able to tell you,” said she.
“Confound it, Lorry, you appear to be most indifferent about the cruel treatment your old friend has met with.”
“I know not what advice to give you. The whole affair I look upon as a piece of folly. This is the second time you have been thrust forth with cuffs and hard words from Stoke Ferry house. The first time you were not so much to blame, but the last time you were much to blame. I don’t know that you deserve much pity,” she added, scornfully.
“Hang your pity!—I want none of it. But you’ve got a good head-piece of your own. Can’t you advise a fellow in this business?”