“See here, by Jove!” cried Hawbury.  “Really.  You’re going too far, my dear boy, you know.  You are, really.  Come now.  This is just like a Surrey theatre, you know.  You’re really raving.  Why, my poor old boy, you must give her up.  You can’t do any thing.  You daren’t call on her.  You’re tied hand and foot.  You may worship her here, and rave about your child-angel till you’re black in the face, but you never can see her; and as to all this about stopping her from marrying any other person, that’s all rot and bosh.  What do you suppose any other man would care for your nonsensical ravings?  Lonely and an exile!  Why, man, she’ll be married and done for in three months.”

“You don’t understand me,” said Dacres, dryly.

“I’m glad that I don’t; but it’s no wonder, old man, for really you were quite incoherent.”

“And so they’re going to Rome,” said Dacres.  “Well, they’ll find that I’m not to be shaken off so easily.”

“Come now, old man, you must give up that.”

“And I, suppose,” continued Dacres, with a sneer, “our handsome, dark-eyed little Italian cavalier is going with us.  Ha, ha, ha!  He’s at the house all the time, no doubt.”

“Well, yes; he was there once.”

“Ah! of course—­quite devoted.”

“Oh yes; but don’t be afraid.  It was not to the child-angel.  She appears to avoid him.  That’s really quite evident.  It’s an apparent aversion on her part.”

Dacres drew a long breath.

“Oh,” said he; “and so I suppose it’s not her that he goes after.  I did not suppose that it was.  Oh no.  There’s another one—­more piquant, you know—­ha, ha!—­a devoted lover—­saved her life—­quite devoted—­and she sits and accepts his attentions.  Yet she’s seen me, and knows that I’m watching her.  Don’t she know me?  Does she want any further proof of what I am ready to do?  The ruins of Dacres Grange should serve her for life.  She tempts fate when she carries on her gallantries and her Italian cicisbeism under the eyes of Scone Dacres.  It’ll end bad.  By Heaven, it will!”

Scone Dacres breathed hard, and, raising his head, turned upon Hawbury a pair of eyes whose glow seemed of fire.

“Bad!” he repeated, crashing his fist on the table.  “Bad, by Heaven!”

Hawbury looked at him earnestly.

“My dear boy,” said he, “you’re getting too excited.  Be cool.  Really, I don’t believe you know what you’re saying.  I don’t understand what you mean.  Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re driving at.  You’re making ferocious threats against some people, but, for my life, I don’t know who they are.  Hadn’t you better try to speak so that a fellow can understand the general drift, at least, of what you say?”

“Well, then, you understand this much—­I’m going to Rome.”

“I’m sorry for it, old boy.”

“And see here, Hawbury, I want you to come with me.”