“Me?  What for?”

“Well, I want you.  I may have need of you.”

As Dacres said this his face assumed so dark and gloomy an expression that Hawbury began to think that there was something serious in all this menace.

“’Pon my life,” said he, “my dear boy, I really don’t think you’re in a fit state to be allowed to go by yourself.  You look quite desperate.  I wish I could make you give up this infernal Roman notion.”

“I’m going to Rome!” repeated Dacres, resolutely.

Hawbury looked at him.

“You’ll come, Hawbury, won’t you?”

“Why, confound it all, of course.  I’m afraid you’ll do something rash, old man, and you’ll have to have me to stand between you and harm.”

“Oh, don’t be concerned about me,” said Dacres.  “I only want to watch her, and see what her little game is.  I want to look at her in the midst of her happiness.  She’s most infernally beautiful, too; hasn’t added a year or a day to her face; more lovely than ever; more beautiful than she was even when I first saw her.  And there’s a softness about her that she never had before.  Where the deuce did she get that?  Good idea of hers, too, to cultivate the soft style.  And there’s sadness in her face, too.  Can it be real?  By Heavens! if I thought it could be real I’d—­but pooh! what insanity!  It’s her art.  There never was such cunning.  She cultivates the soft, sad style so as to attract lovers—­lovers—­who adore her—­who save her life—­who become her obedient slaves!  Oh yes; and I—­what am I?  Why they get together and laugh at me; they giggle; they snicker—­”

“Confound it all, man, what are you going on at that rate for?” interrupted Hawbury.  “Are you taking leave of your senses altogether?  By Jove, old man, you’d better give up this Roman journey.”

“No, I’ll keep at it.”

“What for?  Confound it!  I don’t see your object.”

“My object?  Why, I mean to follow her.  I can’t give her up.  I won’t give her up.  I’ll follow her.  She shall see me every where.  I’ll follow her.  She sha’n’t go any where without seeing me on her track.  She shall see that she is mine.  She shall know that she’s got a master.  She shall find herself cut off from that butterfly life which she hopes to enter.  I’ll be her fate, and she shall know it.”

“By Jove!” cried Hawbury.  “What the deuce is all this about?  Are you mad, or what?  Look here, old boy, you’re utterly beyond me, you know.  What the mischief do you mean?  Whom are you going to follow?  Whose fate are you going to be?  Whose track are you talking about?”

“Who?” cried Dacres.  “Why, my wife!”

As he said this he struck his fist violently on the table.

“The deuce!” exclaimed Hawbury, staring at him; after which he added, thoughtfully, “by Jove!”

Not much more was said.  Dacres sat in silence for a long time, breathing hard, and puffing violently at his cigar.  Hawbury said nothing to interrupt his meditation.  After an hour or so Dacres tramped off in silence, and Hawbury was left to meditate over the situation.