Farquhar wheeled round. “What’s that you say?”
“Congratulations: that’s what I say.”
“What the devil do you mean by such damnable nonsense as this?”
“Hasn’t she written to you?”
“Yes, confound her! I tell you, I was thirsting to leave you to die there, and rot, till the worms had done with you. I’d have given my right hand to do it. I’d have given my eyes.”
“Oho!” said Lucian. “You would, would you? Why didn’t you, then?”
“Confound you! What do you mean by asking such a question as that? You know well enough. Well, then, take her, and enjoy yourself. Mind you, I’ve given you back to her. You owe every second of joy you get out of her to me. And don’t you come playing the fool with your congratulations; I’d not swear but that some day I wouldn’t pick you up and snap your miserable little backbone in two, as I very well could. You’ll be feebler than your wife is, Lucian de Saumarez.”
“Has she been writing to you?”
“Haven’t I told you so?—curse her!”
“What does she say?”