Bobbie had agreed readily to stay the night, for the great Superbus was tired, being human, as he explained, and having only one pair of eyes that needed rest.
There was a slight scene at dinner (Heloise cooked this, and Diana’s respect for her increased).
Dempsi, in his most extravagant mood, called for wine. He wanted wine, red wine—to drink the health of his bride. He demanded that it be red and rosy. That it bubbled with the laughter of sunny vineyards. That its hue be as of the warm, rich blood of youth, palpitating, pulsing, seething with love. This he said in so many words. Bobbie said something terse and offensive, and offered him a whisky and soda. Mr. Dempsi looked black, and Diana hastily intervened. But she might as well have attempted to stay the tide of time. Dempsi made a remarkably quick recovery; spoke tremulously of his happiness; kissed Diana’s hand; gave her for the third time the history of his life.
When he lay in the foul huts of the natives, recovering from his fever, when he searched the world through for traces of his lost love, when, under the starry skies of the Australian bush, he pressed on desperately, doggedly, unflinchingly, following the trail of his divine lady—this was the thought he had—Diana! That some day she should be his! The past sad years should be blotted out and forgotten. All the misery of life would vanish as in a cloud.
“Rot!” said Bobbie.
Mr. Dempsi dissolved into tears.
“Really, Diana, I can’t stand that fellow,” said Bobbie, when the devoted lover had flooded from the room.
Diana lay back limp in her chair, fanning herself with her handkerchief.
“Bobbie, he’s—he’s terrible!” she moaned. “Bobbie, there must be some other solution than murder?”
Mr. Dempsi, in his temperamental way, recovered his equilibrium before he had crossed the hall. Julius Superbus was making up The Study fire as he came in—Dempsi went straight to him, laid his hand on his shoulder, too overcome for speech.