“No, you ought not,” assented Wilbraham coldly. “He’s an ungrateful hound.”
Teresa fired.
“I can’t see where ingratitude comes in! Do you expect him to be grateful for my mistake?”
“How was he the worse for it?”
“How? Hasn’t he suffered?”
“Suffered! A night in a police cell!” said Wilbraham with a smile, which she thought insufferable. “My dear Donna Teresa, he has probably made acquaintance with such quarters before—or, at any rate, I will engage to find you fifty men who, for a hundredth part of what you offer, would occupy them with all the goodwill in the world.”
It is the truth in our opponent’s arguments which we find annoying. Teresa knew that Wilbraham spoke like a man of experience, and was angry. She flung up her head.
“You seem to forget that I said the money had been returned. Perhaps you will find fifty men to do that?”
“It would require sifting of my scoundrels,” laughed Wilbraham. “I grant you that only the cleverest would remain.” He sat forward, and began to drive in his truths. “Don’t you see that the fellow is shrewd enough to read your thoughts and trade upon them?”
The air in the room had grown heated. Mrs Brodrick’s eyes rested anxiously for an instant upon the young marchesa’s displeased face. Teresa did not speak. Wilbraham went on—