"Is that a fair question?"
"Yes," said I. "You invited me to call on her and judge the affair for
myself. I'm doing it. How far have things gone up to now?"
He flashed round on me. Did I mean to insinuate that there was anything
wrong? There wasn't. How could I dream of such a thing? He was vastly
indignant.
"Well, my dear boy," said I, "you've just this minute been scoffing at
foolish moral conventions. If you want to know my opinion," I continued,
after a pause, "it is this--she doesn't care a scrap for you."
Of course I was talking nonsense.
I did not condescend to argue. Neither did I dwell upon the fact that
her affection had not reached the point of informing him whether she
had a husband, and if so, whether he was alive or dead. This gives me an
idea. Suppose I can prove to him beyond a shadow of doubt that the lady,
although flattered by the devotion of a handsome young fellow of birth
and breeding, does not, as I remarked, care a scrap for him. Suppose I
exhibit her to him in the arms, figuratively speaking, of her husband
(providing one is lurking in some back-alley of the world), Mr.
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