“Oh, that’s all fudge. You know it’s the only thing to be done.”
“There’s no need to discuss the subject,” said Caerleon, coldly. “You know what I feel about it.”
“But what is the good of wearing the willow all your life——?”
“I have already said that I decline to discuss the subject with you,” said Caerleon, and Cyril saw that in speaking calmly he was putting a very strong constraint upon himself. He changed his tone instantly.
“Oh, very well. Of course I have no right to complain if you tell Drakovics things you won’t tell me. Still, it’s rather rough on a man.”
“What do you mean? You know perfectly well that nothing is further from my thoughts than to discuss my private affairs with Drakovics.”
“Oh, I suppose you call this a public affair,” returned Cyril, with the air of a man who has neither time nor inclination for such nice distinctions. “I don’t want to appear inquisitive, but perhaps you’ll let me know the day when it’s fixed?”
“Cyril, are you mad? or is this a particularly feeble joke? Tell me what you are driving at.”
“Of course it’s no business of mine,” Cyril went on, unheeding; “but when you have gone so far as to authorise Drakovics to make proposals in your name for the hand of a lady, I think I might have been told.”
“I send a proposal? and through Drakovics? You must be dreaming. Who is the lady?”