He was brought up with a round turn at that.
"I beg your pardon, St. Ives," said he. "Believe me, I had no wish to be offensive. But there's the difficulty of this affair; I can't make any of my points without offence! You must excuse me, it's not my fault. But, at any rate, you must see for yourself this proposal of marriage is—is merely impossible, my dear fellow. It's nonsense! Our countries are at war; you are a prisoner."
"My ancestor of the time of the Ligue," I replied, "married a Huguenot lady out of the Saintonge, riding two hundred miles through an enemy's country to bring off his bride; and it was a happy marriage."
"Well!" he began; and then looked down into the fire, And became silent.
"Well?" I asked.
"Well, there's this business of—Goguelat," said he, still looking at the coals in the grate.
"What!" I exclaimed, starting in my chair. "What's that you say?"
"This business about Goguelat," he repeated.
"Ronald," said I, "this is not your doing. These are not your own words. I know where they came from: a coward put them in your mouth."
"St. Ives!" he cried, "why do you make it so hard for me? and where's the use of insulting other people? The plain English is, that I can't hear of any proposal of marriage from a man under a charge, like that. You must see it for yourself, man! It's the most absurd thing I ever heard of! And you go on forcing me to argue with you, too!"
"Because I have had an affair of honour which terminated unhappily, you—a young soldier, or next-door to it, refuse my offer? Do I understand you aright?" said I.
"My dear fellow!" he wailed, "of course you can twist my words, if you like. You say it was an affair of honour.
