Michael bounded from his chair with an oath.  “I’ll be shot if I do!” he said, and sat down again.  Then his voice grew a little uncertain, and he went on: 

“It is worrying me awfully, though, Henry.  If poor old Maurice does puff out—­I suppose I ought to marry her—­I——­”

Mr. Fordyce stiffened, and the sleepy look in his gray eyes altered to a flash of steel.

“Let us have a little plain speaking, Michael, old boy.  It is not as though I do not know the whole circumstance of your affair with Violet Hatfield.  I warned you about her in the beginning, when you met her at my sister Rose’s, but, as usual, you would take your own course——­”

Michael began to speak, but checked himself—­and Henry Fordyce went on.

“I have had a letter from Rose this morning—­as you of course know, Violet is staying for this Whitsuntide with them, having dragged her wretched husband, dying of consumption as he is, to this merry party.  Well—­Rose says poor Maurice is in a terrible state, caught a fresh cold on Saturday—­and she adds, ’So I suppose we shall soon see Violet installed at Arranstoun as mistress.’”

“I know—­I heard from Violet herself this morning,” and Michael put his head down dejectedly.

“Ebbsworth is only thirty-five miles from here,” Mr. Fordyce announced with meaning.  “Violet can pop in on you at any moment, and she’ll clinch the matter and bind you with her cobwebs before you can escape.”

“Oh, Lord!”

“You know you are dead sick of her, Michael—­and you know that I am not the sort of man who would ever speak of a woman thus without grave reason; but she does not care for you any more than the half a dozen others who occupied your proud position before your day—­it is only for money and the glory of having you tied to her apron strings.  It was not any good hammering on while the passion was upon you; but I have watched you, and have seen that it is waning, so now’s my time.  With this danger in front of you, you have got to pull yourself together, old boy, and cut and run.”

“That would be no use—­” Then Michael stammered a little.  “I say, Henry, I won’t hear a word against her.  You can thunder at me—­but leave her out.”

Mr. Fordyce smiled.

“Did she express deep grief at poor Maurice’s condition in her letter?” he asked.

“Er—­no—­not exactly——­”

“I thought not—­she probably suggested all sorts of joys with you when she is free!”

There was an ominous silence.

Mr. Fordyce’s voice now took on that crisp tone which his adversaries in the House of Commons so well knew meant that they must look to their guns.