Gustav laughed tolerantly, and ostentatiously trifled with his papers.
“You see I too consume paper and the midnight oil.”
“I’ve no doubt of it. You’d have shown yourself more sensible in this affair if you didn’t.”
“As—for instance?”
“You’d have carried your case high-handedly, and reduced the maniac to reason. What are lovers for but to create scenes and bear away the maiden upon the wings of melodrama?”
Gustav coloured and bent his eyes upon the table. This was hardly the sort of man with whom he cared to discuss a matter so very delicate that speech almost affected it as touch affects the bloom of a peach.
“Your brother is well?” he merely asked.
“Pericles! Far from it. He has never rightly recovered from that bad attack after—after—the time you thrashed that scoundrel Oïdas. You remember?”
Gustav reddened darkly, and then paled as suddenly. His eyes took the deadly brilliance of a panther’s, and he said under his breath: