“I have the law on my side. I know where I stand. Conjugal rights——”
“Two conjugal wrongs don’t make one conjugal right, and you’ll find that out to your cost, my good fellow. We’ve had enough of you now, Mr. Blaydon. I’ve been very patient so far, but my patience has its limits. Go to the attorney or the attorney’s clerk who sent you here, and ask him to advise you as to your next step.” He rang the bell, and the footman had opened the door before he had done speaking.
“Show this person out,” said Jack, choosing a cigar from a box on the mantelpiece, and snipping the end off with as great deliberation as is possible with a snip. Priscilla had already gone out of the room by the other door—the one which led into the dining-room.
The man looked at Jack, and then looked at the respectful but unmistakably muscular footman.
“Good morning, Mr. Wingfield,” he said, picking up his hat.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Wingfield. “Fine weather for the harvest, isn’t it?”
“Admirable,” responded the departing guest. “Admirable! Ha! ha!”
He made a very inefficient villain of melodrama in spite of his “Ha, ha!” laugh.
Yes, but he occupied a very important position as an obstacle to the happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Wingfield. He was legally the husband of the young woman who called herself Mrs. Wingfield, and who had never called herself by his name, and a legal husband is a quantity that has always to be reckoned with. His position is a pretty secure one when considered from the standpoint of English legality. In America he would do well not to step on a slide.