“In more ways than one. Where, in heaven's name, did you resurrect that pipe?”
“In the stables. It isn't the pipe, it's the tobacco. I had to break up some cigars.”
Then came another period in the conversation. It occurred to both that something yawned between them—a kind of abyss. Out of this abyss one saw his guilt arise.... A woman stood at his side. He had an accomplice. He had thrown the die, and he would stand stubbornly to it. His pride built yet another wall around him, impregnable either to protests or to sneers. He loved—that was recompense enough. A man will forgive himself of grave sins when these are debtors to his love.
As for the other, he beheld a trust betrayed, and he was powerless to prevent it. Besides, his self-love smarted, chagrin made eyes at him; and, more than all else, he recognized his own share in the Englishman's fall from grace. It had been innocent mischief on his part, true, but nevertheless he stood culpable. He had no business to talk to a woman he did not know. The more he studied the aspects of the situation the more whimsical it grew. He was the prime cause of a king losing his throne, of a man losing his honor, of a princess becoming an outcast.
“Your bride-elect,” he said, “seems somewhat over-hasty. Well, I'm off to bed.”
“Maurice, can you blame me?”
“No, John; whom the gods destroy they first make mad. You will come to your senses when it is too late.”
“For God's sake, Maurice, who is she?”
“What will you do if she breaks her promise?” adroitly evading the question.
“What shall I do?” He emptied the ashes from his pipe, and rose; all that was aggressive came into his face. “I will bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar, and shoot the priest that refuses to marry us. O Maurice, rest easy; no woman lives who will make a fool of me, and laugh.”