"While you were away from me," I said to Rothsay, "did you never once think of your old friend? Must I remind you that I can make Susan your wife with one stroke of my pen?" He looked at me in silent surprise. I took my check-book from the drawer of the table, and placed the inkstand within reach. "Susan's marriage portion," I said, "is a matter of a line of writing, with my name at the end of it."He burst out with an exclamation that stopped me, just as my pen touched the paper.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "you are thinking of that play we saw at Rome! Are we on the stage? Are you performing the part of the Marquis--and am I the Count?"I was so startled by this wild allusion to the past--I recognized with such astonishment the reproduction of one of the dramatic situations in the play, at a crisis in his life and mine--that the use of the pen remained suspended in my hand. For the first time in my life I was conscious of a sensation which resembled superstitious dread.
Rothsay recovered himself first. He misinterpreted what was passing in my mind.
"Don't think me ungrateful," he said. "You dear, kind, good fellow, consider for a moment, and you will see that it can't be.
