“Joe, my friend, I honor you for such a feeling, and I hope as I never hoped before in my life that this thing will prove a false alarm. All the same I shall do my duty by you every time, as a true friend.”
“A thousand thanks. I feel fifty years old to-day instead of thirty-six—it is my birthday, you know, Eric,” with a sad smile.
“I wish you many happy returns, my dear fellow—just three years younger than I am. I wish I had a gift to give you.”
“The best gift this world could give me would be the proof that my wife is the true and faithful wife I have always believed her. Great heavens! Eric, when I think of it all, a spasm comes over me—my fingers twitch as though they would love to encircle the throat of that arch-devil and choke his life out.”
Eric was surprised.
He had not believed this of Joe, looking upon the other as a sort of good-natured giant whom any one could impose upon. Now he saw him angry he made up his mind that if ever Paul Prescott and Joe came in contact it would go hard with the artist.
“Well, I declare, you will make a modern Othello yet, Joe.”
“No, no,” with a shudder, “I might kill him, but I would never raise a finger against her if she deceived me time and again. I couldn’t; I must love her always.”
Eric shrugged his shoulders.
“Every man to his taste. Your character is one in a thousand, Joe. As for me I confess I have more of the tiger about me, and if a man or woman foully wrongs me I look forward with pleasure to revenge.”