Lindon seemed scarcely able to realise that the pair of them had gone. Even after they had disappeared in the crowd he stood staring after them, growing redder and redder, till the veins stood out upon his face, and I thought that an apoplectic seizure threatened. Then, with a gasp, he turned to me.
‘Damned scoundrel!’ I took it for granted that he alluded to the gentleman,—even though his following words hardly suggested it. ‘Only this morning I forbade her to have anything to do with him, and n—now he’s w—walked off with her! C—confounded adventurer! That’s what he is, an adventurer, and before many hours have passed I’ll take the liberty to tell him so!’
Jamming his fists into his pockets, and puffing like a grampus in distress, he took himself away,—and it was time he did, for his words were as audible as they were pointed, and already people were wondering what the matter was. Woodville came up as Lindon was going,—just as sorely distressed as ever.
‘She went away with Lessingham,—did you see her?’
‘Of course I saw her. When a man makes a speech like Lessingham’s any girl would go away with him,—and be proud to. When you are endowed with such great powers as he is, and use them for such lofty purposes, she’ll walk away with you,—but, till then, never.’
He was at his old trick of polishing his eyeglass.
‘It’s bitter hard. When I knew that she was there, I’d half a mind to make a speech myself, upon my word I had, only I didn’t know what to speak about, and I can’t speak anyhow,—how can a fellow speak when he’s shoved into the gallery?’
‘As you say, how can he?—he can’t stand on the railing and shout,—even with a friend holding him behind.’
‘I know I shall speak one day,—bound to; and then she won’t be there.’
‘It’ll be better for you if she isn’t.’