"When Robert Moncton feels the most, he says little. He acts with silent, deadly force. He seldom speaks. He will curse Theophilus in his heart, but speak fair of him to his enemies. I am anxious to know how all this will end."
"My father wanted to see you in the library," said Margaretta. "Your conversation with Alice put it entirely out of my head."
I found Sir Alexander seated at a table, surrounded with papers. If there was one thing my good old friend hated more than another, it was writing letters. "Wise men speak—fools write their thoughts," was a favourite saying of his. He flung the pen pettishly from him as I entered the room.
"Zounds! Geoffrey. I cannot defile paper with writing to that scoundrel. I will see him myself. Who knows, but in the heat of his displeasure, he may say something that will afford a clue to unravel his treachery towards yourself. At all events, I am determined to make the experiment."
"He will make no sign. Robert Moncton never betrays himself."
"To think that his clever Theophilus could make such a low marriage; not but that the girl is far too good for him, and I think the degradation is entirely on her side."
"The pair are worthy of each other," said I.
"You are unjust to Alice, Geoffrey. The girl was a beauty, and so clever, till he spoilt her."
"The tiger is a beautiful animal, and the fox is clever; but we hate the one, and despise the other."
The Baronet gave me a curious look.