“What do you mean?”
“That you are only a big stupid boy, Duncan Leslie.”
“Don’t insult me in my misery, man.”
“Not I, my lad. I like you too well. I am only playing the surgeon, hurting you to do you good. Look here, Leslie, you are in pain, and you are madly jealous.”
“Jealous!” cried the young man scornfully, “of whom?”
“My niece—that man—both of them.”
“Not I. Angry with myself, that’s all, for being an idiot.”
“And because you are angry with yourself, you want to follow and rend that man who knocked you down; and because you call yourself an idiot for being deeply attached to Louise, you are chafing to go after her, and at any cost bring her back to throw yourself at her feet, and say, ‘Don’t have him, have me.’”
“Ah!” cried Leslie furiously. “There, you are an old man and licensed.”
“Yes, I am the licensed master of our family, Leslie, and I always speak my mind.”