“It is the worst illness in the world,” said Denzil, speaking hurriedly and wildly. “The most cruel and torturing! And there is no cure for it save death. My God, Gervase! You were my friend but yesterday! I never should have thought it possible to hate you!”
“Yet you do hate me?” queried Gervase, still smiling a little.
“Hate you? I could kill you! You have been with her!”
Quietly Gervase took his arm.
“My good Denzil, you are mistaken! I confess to you frankly I should have been with her—you mean the Princess Ziska, of course—had it been possible. But she has fled the city for the moment—at least, according to the corpse-like Nubian who acts as porter.”
“He lies!” exclaimed Denzil, hotly. “I saw her this morning.”
“I hope you improved your opportunity,” said Gervase, imperturbably. “Anyway, at the present moment she is not visible.”
A silence fell between them for some minutes; then Denzil spoke again.
“Gervase, it is no use, I cannot stand this sort of thing. We must have it out. What does it all mean?”
“It is difficult to explain, my dear boy,” answered Gervase, half seriously, half mockingly. “It means, I presume, that we are both in love with the same woman, and that we both intend to try our chances with her. But, as I told you the other night, I do not see why we should quarrel about it. Your intentions towards the Princess are honorable—mine are dishonorable, and I shall make no secret of them. If you win her, I shall …”