Dutch had been saying “Yes” and “No” in amusing manner, hardly hearing what his companion said, but the mention of his wife’s name made him start angrily round and glare at the speaker.
“There, that’s just how Mr Studwick, junior, looks at me,” said the naturalist simply. “A regular jealous, fierce look. I wish you would not treat me so, Mr Pugh,” he continued earnestly, and with a pleading look in his weak, lamblike face, “for I like you, I do, indeed. I always have liked you, Mr Pugh, and how you can fancy I have dishonourable ideas about Mrs Pugh I can’t think. It shocks me, Mr Pugh, it does, indeed.”
“My dear fellow,” said Dutch, smiling, half in amusement, half in contempt, “I never did think any such thing.”
“Then why do you look at me so?” continued Wilson, mildly. “You see,” he said, with gathering enthusiasm, “I love Miss Studwick very dearly, but I seem to have no hope whatever. But why are you so angry?”
“There, there, there, don’t talk about it,” said Dutch, shaking the naturalist’s hand. “These are matters one don’t like to talk about.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Wilson, looking at him wistfully. “But you won’t mention what I said.”
“As to your love confidences,” said Dutch smiling, “they are safe with me; but look here, Wilson, you are better as you are—better as you are.”
“You think so, perhaps,” said the young man; “but I do not. You are angry with Mrs Pugh for something: that is all. She is very pretty, but perhaps she is a little imprudent,” he added simply.
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Dutch angrily.
“Don’t be cross with me, Mr Pugh. Perhaps I am wrong.”