“Gentlemen, especially eastern gentlemen, do not send such presents as that to ladies without having some ulterior object in view.”
“What!” roared Murray, in so fierce a tone of voice that Hamet came running in.
“Master call?”
“No, no: go away. Nothing.—Here Braine, you horrify me. That old tyrant dare to—to think—to send her presents—to—oh, it is horrible. The old scoundrel! He to presume to—oh!”
“We may be mistaken. It may be only a compliment.”
“Nothing of the sort, sir. He meant an offer of marriage, which is sure to follow, and—oh, the insolent, tyrannical, old scoundrel!”
Mr Braine looked at Murray with a grave smile.
“This indignation’s all real?” he said.
“Real? I could go and horsewhip him.”
“Then you do care for Amy Barnes, in spite of your short acquaintance, Murray; and I tell you frankly I am very glad, for it may put a stop to a terrible complication, which might have risked all our lives.”