Dunham started at the burst in which these ravings ended. “Staniford,” he faltered, with grave regret, “I hope not!”
“You hope not? You—you—What do you mean? How else can I free myself from the self-reproach of having trifled with her, of—”
Dunham shook his head compassionately. “You can't do it that way. Your only safety is to fight it to the death,—to run from it.”
“But if I don't choose to fight it?” shouted Staniford,—“if I don't choose to run from it? If I—”
“For Heaven's sake, hush! The whole ship will hear you, and you oughtn't to breathe it in the desert. I saw how it was going! I dreaded it; I knew it; and I longed to speak. I'm to blame for not speaking!”
“I should like to know what would have authorized you to speak?” demanded Staniford, haughtily.
“Only my regard for you; only what urges me to speak now! You must fight it, Staniford, whether you choose or not. Think of yourself,—think of her! Think—you have always been my ideal of honor and truth and loyalty—think of her husband—”
“Her husband!” gasped Staniford. “Whose husband? What the deuce—who the deuce—are you talking about, Dunham?”
“Mrs. Rivers.”
“Mrs. Rivers? That flimsy, feather-headed, empty-hearted—eyes-maker! That frivolous, ridiculous—Pah! And did you think that I was talking of her? Did you think I was in love with her?”