“Do I?” asked Egerton, yawning, and stretching himself out lazily in his chair. “I didn’t know my facial expression was not in keeping with the joyousness of the occasion.”
“Look here, old fellow,” continued Hugh, walking over to his companion, and looking him earnestly in the face. “Now, before we start, tell me why you are so strangely indifferent. It seems as if you still entertain some curious antipathy towards Valérie.” Egerton knit his brows, and, rising, assumed an air of utter unconcern.
“It’s a matter I would rather not discuss, old chap,” he said. “At your request I’ve consented to assist at your wedding, otherwise I should not have been here at all.”
“Your very words betray you. Why should you have been absent, pray?”
“For certain reasons,” the other replied briefly. Trethowen regarded his friend with surprise, not unmingled with annoyance.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ silence, “I see. You have not finished those mysterious warnings of yours. Why the deuce don’t you speak right out and tell me what you mean?”
“I have no intention to malign the woman who is to be your wife, Hugh,” the artist answered quietly. “I’ve given you certain hints already, and—”
“Enough of that,” cried his companion, with some asperity. “Though you are an old friend, it gives you no right to interfere with my private affairs.”
“That’s true,” Jack admitted hastily. “Don’t for a moment think I desire to intrude unwarrantably. It’s merely friendly advice I’ve given you.”
“Friendly advice—bosh!” Trethowen said in disgust. “Whatever you know detrimental to Valérie, you’ll oblige me by keeping in future to yourself.”