“He’s a parson.”
“The devil!”
“Worse, a saint. He doesn’t believe in divorce and is obstinately determined to persecute Marian. He says he won’t leave a stone unturned to save her. Please laugh. There’s a comic side to it, I know, but it’s turned away from me.”
“I know the type. I’ve met one or two of them,” said Mortimer, reflectively watching the smoke of his cigar; “I bet he’ll give you a deuced lot of trouble. Unreasonable people are most difficult to deal with, they never know how unreasonable they are. And a man who doesn’t play according to the rules—But, tell me all about it.”
Maddison told him all that he knew of Squire and of Marian’s and his own meetings with him.
“Beastly awkward!” was Mortimer’s comment.
“You can pretty well guess I’m stumped,” said Maddison. “I don’t know what’s best to do.”
“Excuse my asking, I must know all the facts of the case: you don’t want to break off with Mrs. Squire?”
“No!”
“All right! Don’t blaze up, we’re talking politics, not poetry. It’s not one of those cases in which you can sit still and let fate play your cards. The man will stick at nothing. Eventually he must meet her again, even if she doesn’t come to your place. He’ll haunt you. Perhaps catch you together in some public place and kick up—the saints’ own delight.”