"And so they're going to Rome," said Dacres. "Well, they'll find that I'm not to be shaken off so easily."
"Come now, old man, you must give up that."
"And I suppose," continued Dacres, with a sneer, "our handsome, dark-eyed little Italian cavalier is going with us. Ha, ha, ha! He's at the house all the time, no doubt."
"Well, yes; he was there once."
"Ah! of course—quite devoted."
"Oh yes; but don't be afraid. It was not to the child-angel. She appears to avoid him. That's really quite evident. It's an apparent aversion on her part."
Dacres drew a long breath.
"Oh," said he; "and so I suppose it's not her that he goes after. I did not suppose that it was. Oh no. There's another one—more piquant, you know—ha, ha!—a devoted lover—saved her life—quite devoted—and she sits and accepts his attentions. Yet she's seen me, and knows that I'm watching her. Don't she know me? Does she want any further proof of what I am ready to do? The ruins of Dacres Grange should serve her for life. She tempts fate when she carries on her gallantries and her Italian cicisbeism under the eyes of Scone Dacres. It'll end bad. By Heaven, it will!"
Scone Dacres breathed hard, and, raising his head, turned upon Hawbury a pair of eyes whose glow seemed of fire.
"Bad!" he repeated, crashing his fist on the table. "Bad, by Heaven!"