“By thunder, I—I forgot that!” he exclaimed. “What am I to do?” he went on after a moment of perplexity and dismay. The long, cool drink seemed to have left a disagreeable taste in his mouth and he gulped feebly.
“Commit suicide, I should say. I see no other way out of it,” advised the man in the bed, soberly. The misery in Dickey's face was beyond description, and the perspiration that stood on his brow came not from the heat of the day.
“Did you ever know a bigger ass than I, Phil? Now, did you, honestly?” he groaned.
“I believe I can outrank you myself, Dickey. It seems to me we are out of our class when it comes to diplomacy. Give Lady Saxondale and Lady Jane my compliments to-night, and tell them I hope to see them before I sail for home.”
“What's that?” in astonishment.
“Before I sail for home.”
“Going to give it up, are you?”
“She thinks I'm a liar, so what is the use?”
“You didn't talk that way this morning. You swore she believed everything you said and that she cares for you. Anything happened since then?”
“Nothing but the opportunity to think it all over while these bandages hold my brain in one place. Her mind is made up and I can't change it, truth or no truth. She'll never know what a villian Ravorelli—or Pavesi—is until it is too late.”