"A tiff's the last thing I'd want with you. The
lady, in confidence, is not worth--"
"I do not wish," declared Rudolph, trembling,--"I do not wish you to say
those things, so!"
"Right!" laughed the other, and his pony wheeled at the word. "I'll give
you one month--no: you're such a good, thorough little chap, it will
take longer--two months, to change your mind. Only"--he looked down at
Rudolph with a comic, elderly air--"let me observe, our yellow people
have that rather neat proverb. A hen's head, dear chap,--not with a
battle-axe! No. Hot weather's coming, too. No sorrows of Werther, now,
over such"--He laughed again. "Don't scowl, I'll be good. I won't say
it. You'll supply the word, in two months!"
He let the pony have his way, and was off in a clatter. Lonely, fuming
with resentment, Rudolph stared after him. What could he know, this
airy, unfeeling meddler, so free with his advice and innuendo? Let him
go, then, let him canter away. He had seen quickly, guessed with a
diabolic shrewdness, yet would remain on the surface, always, of a
mystery so violent and so profound. The young man stalked into his
vacant nunnery in a rage, a dismal pomp of emotion: reason telling him
that a friend had spoken sense, imagination clothing him in the sceptred
pall of tragedy.
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