"Then you want him?" he said, without raising his eyes from her jeweled, supple fingers.
"Please—for to-morrow," she answered with the air of making an atonement. "And—I'll not be so wicked again."
Strangely enough, in the presence of such perfected acting Fargus found new strength and a fierce delight in matching wits.
"Well, well!" he said, forcing a fierce smile. "That was all, was it? And you are sure you want Mr. Bofinger?"
"Please."
"That decides it then!" he said grimly; and to him the words were as the casting of a die.
The emotion of vengeance is supreme among human passions. Beyond love itself, of which it is often the ultimate phase, it is so exacting and absorbing that only the most intense natures can guard it long in their hearts without being thereby consumed. The generality of men prefer to excuse and forget. The man who can pursue a vengeance relentlessly, and at the sacrifice of his own desires, has in him either a little of the woman or of the savage, in whom the egotism of civilization is unknown; or a touch of that madness which distinguishes fanatics and misanthropes, those who are ready to sacrifice themselves for humanity or those who despise it. In measure as this supreme passion dominated Fargus it educated him and, from a first tempestuous upsetting, it calmed him and gave to him the strength of deception, the joy of matching his wits against the woman and a confidence in the ultimate day. His demeanor during the supper at which Bofinger was present surprised him. Forewarned he viewed their adroit maneuvering to develop a quarrel with scorn and amusement. He found in himself another man, the creature of his new purpose, who suffered no longer. But at times the other returned with the intensity of pain.
Two days after the supper with Bofinger, Fargus returned one night with a vigor and a zest that impressed Sheila at once.
"Ah, you're different to-night," she said, looking at him with interest.
"Yes, Sheila, I am," he cried, taking her hand and squeezing it joyfully. "Luck, great luck!"