“You take the devil of a time arriving at the point of your story,” struck in the Marquis impatiently. “Be a little more brief, and to hell with your periods.”
“I will endeavour, my lord. Upon the journey — ”
“Damn it, am I never to know why you came to Dijon?” said Rupert despairingly.
“Hush, Rupert! Let Mr. Comyn speak!” reproved Léonie.
“Speak? The dratted fellow’s never ceased speaking for the past ten minutes,” complained his lordship. “Well, go on, man, go on!”
“Upon the journey,” repeated Mr. Comyn with unwearied patience, “I was gradually brought to realize that Miss Challoner’s affections were more deeply involved than I had supposed. Yet I could not but agree with her that a marriage with your lordship would be unsuitable in the extreme. My determination to marry her remained unshaken, for I believed your lordship to be indifferent to her. But when the late accident occurred it was apparent to anyone of the meanest intelligence that you felt for the lady all the most tender passions which any female could wish for in her future husband.”
The Marquis was watching him intently. “Well, man? Well?”
The question was destined to remain unanswered. A fresh interruption occurred. The landlord scratched on the door, and opened it to say: “There is another English monsieur desires to see M. Comyn. He calls himself M. Hammond.”
“Tell him to go to the devil!” said Lord Rupert irritably.
“Never heard of the fellow in my life! He can’t come in now.”