"Whew! What's up? You haven't quarrelled already? Or won't the
governor give his consent?"
"No," said Dartmouth, "that's not it."
"Then what the devil is the matter? Is--is she dead?"
"No."
"Was she married to some other man before?"
"No!"
"I beg your pardon; I was merely exhausting the field of conjecture.
Will you kindly enlighten me?"
"If I did, you would say I was a lunatic."
"I have been inclined to say so occasionally before--"
"Becky, Weir Penrhyn is my--" And then he stopped. The ludicrous side
of the matter had never appealed to him, but he was none the less
conscious of how ridiculous the thing would appear to another.
"Your what? Your wife? Are you married to her already, and do you want
me to break it to the old gentleman? What kind of a character is he?
Shall I go armed?"
"She is not my wife, thank God! If she were--"
"For heaven's sake, Harold, explain yourself. Can it be possible that
Miss Penrhyn is like too many other women?"
Dartmouth sprang to his feet, his face white to the lips.
"How dare you say such a thing?" he exclaimed.
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