"When you do know, Mr. Nugent Dubourg, and when you have brought your brother back to this house, I will take your hand—not before."
He bowed resignedly, with a little satirical shrug of the shoulders, and asked if he might offer me a chair.
I took a chair for myself, and placed it so that I might be opposite to him when he resumed his seat. He checked himself in the act of sitting down, and looked towards the open window.
"Shall I throw away my cigar?" he said.
"Not on my account. I have no objection to smoking."
"Thank you." He took his chair—keeping his face in the partial obscurity cast by the shade of the lamp. After smoking for a moment, he spoke again, without turning to look at me. "May I ask what your object is in honoring me with this visit?"
"I have two objects. The first is to see that you leave Dimchurch to-morrow morning. The second is to make you restore your brother to his promised wife."
He looked round at me quickly. His experience of my irritable temper had not prepared him for the perfect composure of voice and manner with which I answered his question. He looked back again from me to his cigar, and knocked off the ash at the tip of it (considering with himself) before he addressed his next words to me.
"We will come to the question of my leaving Dimchurch presently," he said. "Have you received a letter from Oscar?"
"Yes."