Philip Rowe smiled: he had his vanities.
"O, indeed!" he said, with assumed carelessness.
"And that will bring me back presently to a subject I mentioned when I surprised you to-night. First, however, there is another thing to be settled. You must cease your attentions to Margaret."
"Not if I know it!" said Philip, with a defiant shake of his head. "I mean to marry her. If you throw any obstacles in the way I'll run away with her to-morrow, in spite of your teeth."
He laughed confidently: he knew his power.
"But you are a gentleman," remonstrated Mr. Hart. "And she is a lady," quoth Philip.
If love's guild could give titles, a peasant would rank higher than a duchess. Not that there was anything common about Margaret. She was born of humble parents, it is true; but she was a good girl, and that is enough for any man.
It was enough for Mr. Hart. He gazed at Philip in frank and honest admiration; but he determined to apply a test. He was not a suspicious man, but he had a duty to perform.
"Suppose there is an obstacle already in the way," he said, looking Philip steadily in the face; "suppose she is already married."
Philip staggered, and the blood deserted his face. "Good God!" he cried. "Then she has been playing me false!"