"All the same, she was back of everything. Then came last Whitsuntide——"
He paused. Jim continued: "I know about that. I suppose you learned, then, of this cursed mischief inside you?"
"I suspected something; I went to Barger and Drax. They told me marriage was madness."
"Great Scott!"
He was more agitated than Mark, thrusting out his chin, shaking his shoulders, clenching his fists: gestures familiar to Mark since the Harrow days and before. It struck Mark suddenly that this scene was recurrent, the ebb and flow of the heart's tide breaking on rocks. Could anything be more futile than talk: the interminable recital of what was and what might have been? His voice, as he continued, lost its tonic quality:
"There is not much more to tell. Just as I began to hope that my life might still hold Betty, the news came of her engagement——"
Jim looked at the red tie.
"And then you saw red," he spluttered, "you saw red."
"When that letter came, I could—have—killed—my—brother."
The two men had risen and were staring at each other with flaming eyes.