“What do you mean?” said Julian with a stupid stare.
“I mean,” he replied slowly, “that the wine has got into your head.”
A laugh, half hysterical, half defiant, was the only answer, and Julian began to put on his surplice, wrong side out.
“Julian, I beg of you to stay here as you would avoid ruin.”
“Pooh! I am not a child, as you seem to think. You are—Yes, you are a fool, Lillyston.”
Pained to the very heart, Lillyston wavered for a moment, but a glance at Julian decided him. Five years of happy uninterrupted friendship, five years during which he had regarded his friend’s stainless character with ever-growing pride and affection, determined him at all hazards to save him from the effects of this temporary possession. Firmly, but quietly, he planted his back against the door, and said—
“Dear Julian, I beseech you not to go.”
The tone of voice, the mention of his own name recalled Julian for a moment, but the sound of the chapel-bell renewed his determination, and he answered, “Nonsense. Come, make room.”
“You shall not go, Julian.”
“But I will,” shouted he angrily; “how dare you prevent me; stand aside.”