De Rothan laughed, but it was the laughter of a man whose self-love felt savage.
"What a pretty little romance I have been feeding! That I should have rubbed this young fool on the raw, while sweet Nance pitied him."
Durrell's fingers kept up an agitated rapping on the arms of the chair.
"If you have any sense of honour, De Rothan——"
"Honour! I am packed full of honour. My marrow tingles with it. But you, Sir Pantaloon, do not understand."
"You are right. I do not understand."
"No, who could expect it. You desert me to play the fond father. It is very laughable. As if you could not have played the fond father and kept all your ambitions! Well, Mr. Anthony Durrell, I think there is nothing left for you but to sit here and wait to see the Emperor land."
"I believe less, sir, in the Emperor than I did."
"A pity! Yet we shall recover from your sudden scepticism. No doubt you will be happier with your books."
De Rothan rose, and stood looking over Stonehanger Common. His long mouth curled, and his nostrils were contemptuous. Durrell watched him uneasily, resentfully, still tapping the chair-rails with his fingers.