"Punching his bally head till he wouldn't know it himself in the mirror," he grated, looking at his fist almost tearfully.
The Marchioness opened her lips to say something, thought better of it, and turned her head to smile.
"Moreover," he went on, "she's right. Might get her into no end of a mess with those people, you see. It breaks my heart to think of her—"
"He wants her to run away with him and be married," she broke in.
"What!" he almost shouted, glaring at her as if she were the real offender. "You—did she tell you that?"
"Yes. He rather favours San Francisco. He wants her to go out there with him and be married by a chap to whom he promised the distinction while they were still in their teens."
"The cur! That's his game, is it? Why, that's the foulest trick known to—"
"But she isn't going, my friend,—so possess yourself in peace. That's why he is turning off so nasty. He is making things most unpleasant for her."
He wondered how far Jane had gone in her confidences. Had she told the Marchioness everything?
"Why doesn't she leave the place?" he demanded, as a feeler.