“Tropical—balderdash,” he exploded. “If you are not the most exasperating, unfeeling man alive—”
“I merely wanted to know if you wished to marry Mademoiselle de St. Gré,” I interrupted.
He gave me a look of infinite tolerance.
“Have I not made it plain that I cannot live without her?” he said; “if not, I will go over it all again.”
“That will not be necessary,” I said hastily.
“The trouble may be,” he continued, “that they have already made one of their matrimonial contracts with a Granpré, a Beauséjour, a Bernard.”
“Monsieur de St. Gré is a very sensible man,” I answered. “He loves his daughter, and I doubt if he would force her to marry against her will. Tell me, Nick,” I asked, laying my hand upon his shoulder, “do you love this girl so much that you would let nothing come between you and her?”
“I tell you, I do; and again I tell you, I do,” he replied. He paused suddenly glancing at my face, and added, “Why do you ask, Davy?”
I stood irresolute, now that the time had come not daring to give voice to my suspicions. He had not spoken to me of his mother save that once, and I had no means of knowing whether his feeling for the girl might not soften his anger against her. I have never lacked the courage to come to the point, but there was still the chance that I might be mistaken in this after all. Would it not be best to wait until I had ascertained in some way the identity of Mrs. Clive? And while I stood debating, Nick regarding me with a puzzled expression, Monsieur de St. Gré appeared on the gallery.
“Come, gentlemen,” he cried; “dinner awaits us.”