Frank Lamotte utters a low mirthless laugh.
"I might say the same of you, sir; your present pallor can scarcely be attributed to grief."
"True;" a darker shadow falling across his countenance. "Nor is it grief. It is bitter disappointment. Have you seen Miss Wardour?"
"Yes;" averting his head.
"And your case in that quarter?"
"Hopeless."
"What!" sharply.
"Hopeless, I tell you, sir; do I look like a prosperous wooer? she will not look at me. She will not touch me. She will not have me at any price."
Jasper Lamotte mutters a curse. "Then you have been playing the poltroon," he says savagely.
The countenance of the younger man grows livid. He starts up from his chair, then sinks weakly back again.