"Are you quite sober, sir?" he demanded.
"Yes, I am absolutely sober."
"Then allow me to tell you that you are talking so much tomfoolery! Of course the marriage must take place! How on earth can you have allowed yourself to come here with such a suggestion? I suppose Dora is in a state of nervousness that borders on hysteria and so has got some foolish fancy into her head that she doesn't like me enough. For Heaven's sake, man, go home and reason with her, and don't delay me any longer with such a wild-goose tale."
The ex-merchant regarded Jefferson with a cool and resolute gaze.
"This is not a wild-goose tale. Dora is not hysterical. Nor is this a foolish fancy of hers. She prefers young Mortimer to you, and it would be an unpardonable crime on my part to allow her to marry you."
"Mortimer!--that bounder!"
"She loves Mortimer--and he is not, I may add, a bounder. He is as good a gentleman as I have ever met."
The situation was getting serious. Jefferson took off his overcoat and lit a cigarette. Then--by way of steadying his own nerves--he mixed himself a whisky and soda. Finally he came to a halt opposite his visitor, and as he did so his lips set in an ugly and determined line.
"Now, look here, Maybury," he said, blowing a column of smoke ceilingwards, "let us talk sense. Dora likes this Mortimer--I have known that for a long time. To-night his name is in every mouth--yes, I have read in the evening papers of what he has done. And so it suddenly occurs to her that she would prefer to be the wife of a brilliant young surgeon rather than of a--well, of a not very brilliant young stockbroker."
Mr Maybury held up his hand, but Jefferson would not be silenced.