“It may be so, but he is stupid, ruined by play, and worn out by dissipation. It is really a nice match for you, so pretty, so fresh, and so intelligent.”
She inquired, smiling: “What have you against him?”
“I, nothing.”
“Yes, you have. He is not all that you say.”
“Nonsense. He is a fool and an intriguer.”
She turned round somewhat, leaving off looking into the water, and said: “Come, what is the matter with you?”
He said, as though a secret was being wrenched from the bottom of his heart: “I—I—am jealous of him.”
She was slightly astonished, saying: “You?”
“Yes, I.”
“Why so?”
“Because I am in love with you, and you know it very well, you naughty girl.”
She said, in a severe tone: “You are mad, Pretty-boy.”
He replied; “I know very well that I am mad. Ought I to have admitted that—I, a married man, to you, a young girl? I am more than mad, I am guilty. I have no possible hope, and the thought of that drives me out of my senses. And when I hear it said that you are going to be married, I have fits of rage enough to kill someone. You must forgive me this, Susan.”