Falcon turned white with rage at this second affront. “All the worse for her,” said he, and turned on his heel.
He went home, raging with disappointment and wounded vanity, and—since such love as his is seldom very far from hate—he swore she should never know from him that her husband was alive. He even moralized. “This comes of being so unselfish,” said he. “I'll give that game up forever.”
By and by, a mere negative revenge was not enough for him, and he set his wits to work to make her smart.
He wrote to her from his lodgings:—
DEAR MADAM,—What a pity you are never at home to me. I had something to say about your husband, that I thought might interest you.
Yours truly,
R. FALCON.
Imagine the effect of this abominable note. It was like a rock flung into a placid pool. It set Rosa trembling all over. What could he mean?
She ran with it to her father, and asked him what Mr. Falcon could mean.
“I have no idea,” said he. “You had better ask him, not me.”