“Pardon me—in Buckinghamshire,” said I, smiling.
“Well, what I mean is, my dear St. Ives, that you can’t prove them,” he continued. “They might just as well not be: do you follow me? You can’t bring us any third party to back you up.”
“O, come!” cried I, springing up and hurrying to the table. “You must excuse me!” I wrote Romaine’s address. “There is my reference, Mr. Gilchrist. Until you have written to him, and received his negative answer, I have a right to be treated, and I shall see that you treat me, as a gentleman.”
He was brought up with a round turn at that. “I beg your pardon, St. Ives,” said he. “Believe me, I had no wish to be offensive. But there’s the difficulty of this affair; I can’t make any of my points without offence! You must excuse me, it’s not my fault. But, at any rate, you must see for yourself this proposal of marriage is—is merely impossible, my dear fellow. It’s nonsense! Our countries are at war; you are a prisoner.”
“My ancestor of the time of the Ligue,” I replied, “married a Huguenot lady out of the Saintonge, riding two hundred miles through an enemy’s country to bring off his bride; and it was a happy marriage.”
“Well,” he began; and then looked down into the fire and became silent.
“Well?” I asked.
“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.