"Well, well, my good friend, what did you see this paragon of perfection about?"
"You will not believe it, sir."
"Oh, yes, I shall—do not be afraid of that—I shall believe it. Your narrative bears too much the stamp of truth about it for me to doubt it for a moment. I pray you to go on."
"I will then. The first object that met my eyes in that Temple Garden was the being whom I loved so fondly leaning upon the arm of a man in a military undress—leaning, did I say, upon his arm? she was almost upon his breast, and he was actually supporting her with one of his arms round her waist."
"Well?"
"What, sir! Is that all you can say to it? Would you say 'Well?' if you saw the only creature you ever loved in such a situation, sir? Well, indeed!"
"My dear friend, do not get excited, now."
"Oh, sir, it would excite a stick or a stone."
"Excuse me, then, for having said 'Well,' and go on with your story. What did she say to excuse herself to you?"
"'Tis well, sir—of course, I cannot expect others to feel as I do upon such an occasion. I did not speak to her, sir. The sight of such perfidy was enough for me. From that moment she fell from the height I had raised her to in my imagination, and nothing she could say, and nothing I could say, would raise her up again."