‘Well, there’s this business of—Goguelat,’ said he, still looking at the coals in the grate.
‘What!’ I exclaimed, starting in my chair. ‘What’s that you say?’
‘This business about Goguelat,’ he repeated.
‘Ronald,’ said I, ‘this is not your doing. These are not your own words. I know where they came from: a coward put them in your mouth.’
‘St. Ives!’ he cried, ‘why do you make it so hard for me? and where’s the use of insulting other people? The plain English is, that I can’t hear of any proposal of marriage from a man under a charge like that. You must see it for yourself, man! It’s the most absurd thing I ever heard of! And you go on forcing me to argue with you, too!’
‘Because I have had an affair of honour which terminated unhappily, you—a young soldier, or next-door to it—refuse my offer? Do I understand you aright?’ said I.
‘My dear fellow!’ he wailed, ‘of course you can twist my words, if you like. You say it was an affair of honour. Well, I can’t, of course, tell you that—I can’t—I mean, you must see that that’s just the point! Was it? I don’t know.’
‘I have the honour to inform you,’ said I.
‘Well, other people say the reverse, you see!’
‘They lie, Ronald, and I will prove it in time.’