“Likely,” growled Pacey. “Nice Christian advice to give. Why, it would kill her.”
“Not it. She has too much womanly determination in her, poor girl. But I can do nothing. She has been to him again and again in opposition to my wishes—forgotten all her woman’s dignity.”
“To try and save your old schoolfellow, her lover.”
“Bah! she has cast him off, sir, as the scoundrel deserves.”
“Not she,” said Pacey. “She loves him still in spite of all, and in time she would forgive him, if he behaved like a man.”
“Not if I can prevent it,” retorted Thorpe. “She shall not forgive him.”
“Well, sir,” said Pacey, “I have not come to dispute with you about that. He is almost your brother, and he is in deadly peril of his life. That Italian has challenged him; they will fight, as sure as we stand here, and the malignant, spiteful scoundrel will shoot Armstrong like a dog.”
“Nonsense! What can he care for such a wife?”
“Nothing; but his honour is at stake.”
“His honour!” cried Thorpe contemptuously.