Then, checking his amusement, he added, “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” said Montague.
He was trembling slightly, and Duval noticed it; he smiled genially. “This is the sort of material out of which scenes are made,” said he. “But I beg you not to be embarrassed—we won’t have any scenes.”
Montague could think of nothing to say to that.
“I owe Evelyn an apology,” the other continued. “It was entirely an accident—this clipping, you see. I do not intrude, as a rule. You may make yourself at home in future.”
Montague flushed scarlet at the words.
“Mr. Duval,” he said, “I have to assure you that you are mistaken—”
The other stared at him. “Oh, come, come!” he said, laughing. “Let us talk as men of the world.”
“I say that you are mistaken,” said Montague again.
The other shrugged his shoulders. “Very well,” he said genially. “As you please. I simply wish to make matters clear to you, that’s all. I wish you joy with Evelyn. I say nothing about her—you love her. Suffice it that I’ve had her, and I’m tired of her; the field is yours. But keep her out of mischief, and don’t let her make a fool of herself in public, if you can help it. And don’t let her spend too much money—she costs me a million a year already.—Good evening, Mr. Montague.”