His voice died out. Curiosity was depicted in Ricardo's countenance.
“Just like that; for nothing? And then turned about and went back to that island again?”
“And went back to that island again,” Schomberg echoed lifelessly, fixing his gaze on the floor.
“What's the matter with you?” asked Ricardo with genuine surprise. “What is it?”
Schomberg, without looking up, made an impatient gesture. His face was crimson, and he kept it lowered. Ricardo went back to the point.
“Well, but how do you account for it? What was his reason? What did he go back to the island for?”
“Honeymoon!” spat out Schomberg viciously.
Perfectly still, his eyes downcast, he suddenly, with no preliminary stir, hit the table with his fist a blow which caused the utterly unprepared Ricardo to leap aside. And only then did Schomberg look up with a dull, resentful expression.
Ricardo stared hard for a moment, spun on his heel, walked to the end of the room, came back smartly, and muttered a profound “Ay! Ay!” above Schomberg's rigid head. That the hotel-keeper was capable of a great moral effort was proved by a gradual return of his severe, Lieutenant-of-the-Reserve manner.
“Ay, ay!” repeated Ricardo more deliberately than before, and as if after a further survey of the circumstances, “I wish I hadn't asked you, or that you had told me a lie. It don't suit me to know that there's a woman mixed up in this affair. What's she like? It's the girl you—”