“About two months ago we had a slight misunderstanding.”
“About his wife, I presume?”
“About none of your business, if you will pardon brevity,” Marrion answered, curtly.
“You need not mind a little thing like that. I am in the same boat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I am in love with her, too; I admire her as cordially as I hate him.” He drained the fifth glass of his genuine Medoc, and went on:
“Did you ever see such a ravishing form; I’ll swear she is divine.”
Marrion appeared not to hear him; he turned his head away as if the other were not speaking. He heard the wit and gaiety of his club friends. Meanwhile, everybody’s old acquaintance, the devil, had been spending a time with Frost, by special invitation. He could only view the other’s triumph; and there he sat, helpless, consumed with impotent rage; a look of ungovernable fury distorted his features, already flushed with madness and wine. His upper lip curled at the corners, and his eyes blazed like those of an enraged tiger, as he muttered:
“Robert Milburn, you shall pay dearly for this victory.” Then he turned to Marrion and said: