His voice rang out with singular emphasis,—his eyes glowed with a fiery ardour; startled by his impressive manner I let my cigar die out and stared at him in mute amazement. What an inspired countenance!—what an imposing figure!—how sovereignly supreme and almost god-like in his looks he seemed at the moment;—and yet there was something terrifying in his attitude of protest and defiance. He caught my wondering glance,—the glow of passion faded from his face,—he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“I think I was born to be an actor”—he said carelessly—“Now and then the love of declamation masters me. Then I speak—as Prime Ministers and men in Parliament speak—to suit the humour of the hour, and without meaning a single word I say!”
“I cannot accept that statement”—I answered him, smiling a little—“You do mean what you say,—though I fancy you are rather a creature of impulse.”
“Do you really!” he exclaimed—“How wise of you!—good Geoffrey Tempest, how very wise of you! But you are wrong. There never was a being created who was less impulsive, or more charged with set purpose than I. Believe me or not as you like,—belief is a sentiment that cannot be forced. If I told you that I am a dangerous companion,—that I like evil things better than good,—that I am not a safe guide for any man, what would you think?”
“I should think you were whimsically fond of [p 63] under-estimating your own qualities”—I said, re-lighting my cigar, and feeling somewhat amused by his earnestness—“And I should like you just as well as I do now,—perhaps better,—though that would be difficult.”
At these words, he seated himself, bending his steadfast dark eyes full upon me.
“Tempest, you follow the fashion of the prettiest women about town,—they always like the greatest scoundrels!”
“But you are not a scoundrel;”—I rejoined, smoking peacefully.
“No,—I’m not a scoundrel, but there’s a good deal of the devil in me.”
“All the better!” I said, stretching myself out in my chair with lazy comfort—“I hope there’s something of him in me too.”