"'He was right! I was a blackguard. But had it not been for those last words of his, I should straight-way have offered to have married Irene on the morrow. The words were on my lips, but the contempt of that monosyllable maddened me. The better impulse passed away.
"'"You should have given her to me when I asked for her hand," I answered. "You cur!" he repeated. I looked at him steadily. "You are an old man," I said, "or I should throw you down my stairs. Now go! Irene has nothing to say to you, nor have I."
"'He lingered on the threshold for a moment, surveying us both with a calm dignity, before which I felt ashamed.
"'"As you remind me, I am an old man," he said quietly, "and I have, alas, no son to chastise you as you deserve. But the season of old age is the season of prophecy! Listen, Martin de Vaux," pointing towards me, "you shall taste the bitterest dregs of sorrow and remorse in the days to come, for this your evil deed. You may scoff, both of you,—you may say to yourselves that an old man's words are words of folly,—but the day will come! It is writ in the book of fate, and my eyes have seen it! Pile sin upon sin, and pleasure upon pleasure; say to yourselves, 'let us eat and be merry, for to-morrow we shall die!' For so it is written, and my eyes have seen it!"
"'He was gone almost before the echo of his words had died away. I called after him, but there was no answer but the sound of a shutting door. I looked at Irene; she was calmly buttoning her glove.
"'"The carriage is waiting," she reminded me coolly.
"'I gave her my arm, and laughed. We drove to the opera.'"