"But your life has not passed out with her," argued William; "your life is in you, just as much as it ever was. And it is your duty to make some use of your life; not to let it run to waste—as you are doing."
"It does not affect you," was the tart reply.
"It does very much affect me. I am grieved to see you hug your pain, instead of shaking it off; vexed to think that a man should so bury his days. It is an unfortunate thing that no one is cognizant of this matter but myself."
"Is it though!" retorted Henry. "You are a fine Job's comforter!"
"Yes, it is. Were it known to those about you, you would not for shame lie here, and indulge regrets after an imprudent and silly girl."
Henry flashed an angry glance at him from his soft dark eyes. "Take care, my good fellow! I can stand some things; but I don't stand all."
"An imprudent, silly girl, who does not care a rush for you," emphatically repeated William: "whose wild and ill-judged affection is given to another. Was ever infatuation like unto yours!"
"Have a care, I tell you!" burst forth Henry. "By what right do you say these things to me?"
"I say them for your good—and I intend that you should feel them. When a surgeon's knife probes a wound, the patient groans and winces; but it is done to cure him."
"You are a man of eloquence!" sarcastically rejoined Henry. "Pity but you could flourish at the Bar, and take the anticipated shine out of Frank!"