“Well, Bacchus,” said Maurice, trying to pass the matter off lightly at first, “why have you deserted your revellers?”
“To punish a scoundrel,” burst out the furious Greek, stamping his foot.
Maurice looked around serenely; and then, sitting down on a block of black lava, streaked with sulphur, began to roll a cigarette, which innocent proceeding irritated Caliphronas beyond all powers of self-control.
“Do you hear me?” he cried, mad with rage. “I came here to punish a scoundrel!”
In a quarrel the victory is generally to him who keeps his temper, as Maurice knew very well; so, in this case, the more enraged grew the Greek, the calmer became the Englishman.
“So I see,” he replied phlegmatically; “but, as I see no scoundrel here but yourself, I hardly understand you.”
“Understand this, Mr. Maurice—you are the scoundrel!”
“Really!” said Roylands, lighting his cigarette with provoking coolness; “and your reason for applying such a name to me?”
“You make love to the lady who is to be my wife.”
“I was not aware your offer of marriage had been accepted.”