Could he have any serious motive for this irrelevant way of talking? Or
was he, to judge by his own account of himself, going round and round
the subject of his wife and his guest, before he could get at it?
Suspecting him of jealousy from the first, Hugh failed--naturally
perhaps in his position--to understand the regard for Iris, and the
fear of offending her, by which her jealous husband was restrained.
Lord Harry was attempting (awkwardly indeed!) to break off the
relations between his wife and her friend, by means which might keep
the true state of his feelings concealed from both of them. Ignorant of
this claim on his forbearance, it was Mountjoy's impression that he was
being trifled with. Once more, he waited for enlightenment, and waited
in silence.
"You don't find my conversation interesting?" Lord Harry remarked,
still with perfect good-humour.
"I fail to see the connection," Mountjoy acknowledged, "between what
you have said so far, and the subject on which you expressed your
intention of speaking to me. Pray forgive me if I appear to hurry
you--or if you have any reasons for hesitation."
Far from being offended, this incomprehensible man really appeared to
be pleased. "You read me like a book!" he exclaimed. "It's hesitation
that's the matter with me. I'm a variable man. If there's something
disagreeable to say, there are times when I dash at it, and times when
I hang back. Can I offer you any refreshment?" he asked, getting away
from the subject again, without so much as an attempt at concealment.
Hugh thanked him, and declined.
"Not even a glass of wine? Such white Burgundy, my dear sir, as you
seldom taste."
Hugh's British obstinacy was roused; he repeated his reply. Lord Harry
looked at him gravely, and made a nearer approach to an open confession
of feeling than he had ventured on yet.
"With regard now to my wife. When I went away this morning with
Vimpany--he's not such good company as he used to be; soured by
misfortune, poor devil; I wish he would go back to London. As I was
saying--I mean as I was about to say--I left you and Lady Harry
together this morning; two old friends, glad (as I supposed) to have a
gossip about old times. When I come back, I find you left here alone,
and I am told that Lady Harry is in her room. What do I see when I get
there? I see the finest pair of eyes in the world; and the tale they
tell me is, We have been crying. When I ask what may have happened to
account for this--'Nothing, dear,' is all the answer I get. What's the
impression naturally produced on my mind? There has been a quarrel
perhaps between you and my wife."