Drake smoked in silence for a moment or two. Most men would have said at once that Lady Lucille Turfleigh had, on his change of prospects, jilted him; but Drake had some old-world notions of honor in respect to women, and he could not give Lady Luce away.
"I'm afraid I can't marry Luce," he said. "Our engagement is broken off."
The earl swore a good old Tory oath.
"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" he said. "One of the nicest girls I know, and—devoted to you. More devoted to you than you deserve. And you don't mean to marry her? I suppose you've seen some one else?"
Drake grew hot, but he still clung to his notion of honor.
"I tell you what it is, Drake," said the earl, bringing down his port glass on the table so violently that it snapped off at the stem, "you young fellows of the present day haven't any idea of honor. Here's a girl, a beautiful girl, and nice in every way, simply devoted to you, and you go and throw her over. For some insane fancy, I suppose! Well, see here, I'm d——d if I'll countenance it. I abide by my condition. You make it up with Luce and marry her, and I'll settle this money on you, as I've said. If not——"
Drake knocked the ash off his cigarette and looked straight before him. He could still save himself by telling the truth and sacrificing Lady Luce. But that was not his way.
"I'm sorry, sir——" he began.
"Sorry be d——d!" broke in the earl tempestuously. "Will you, or will you not?"
"I can't," said Drake quietly.