He paused, and there was a sudden look in his eyes which gave them a sombre darkness, darker than their own natural color.
"You shall--what?" asked Denzil.
"Do something desperate," replied Gervase. "What the something will be depends on the humor of the moment. A tiger balked of his prey is not an agreeable beast; a strong man deprived of the woman he passionately desires is a little less agreeable even than the tiger. But let us adopt the policy of laissez-faire. Nothing is decided; the fair one cares for neither of us; let us be friends until she makes her choice."
"We cannot be friends," said Denzil, sternly.
"Good! Let us be foes then, but courteous, even in our quarrel, dear boy. If we must kill each other, let us do it civilly. To fly at each other's throats would be purely barbaric. We owe a certain duty to civilization; things have progressed since the days of Araxes."
Denzil stared at him gloomily.
"Araxes is Dr. Dean's fad," he said. "I don't know anything about Egyptian mummies, and don't want to know. My matter is with the present, and not with the past."
They had reached the hotel by this time, and turned into the gardens side by side.
"You understand?" repeated Denzil. "We cannot be friends!"
Gervase gave him a profoundly courteous salute, and the two separated.
Later on in the afternoon, about an hour before dinner-time, Gervase, strolling on the terrace of the hotel alone, saw Helen Murray seated at a little distance under some trees, with a book in her hand which she was not reading. There were tears in her eyes, but as he approached her she furtively dashed them away and greeted him with a poor attempt at a smile.
"You have a moment to spare me?" he asked, sitting down beside her.
She bent her head in acquiescence.
"I am a very unhappy man, Mademoiselle Helen," he began, looking at her with a certain compassionate tenderness as he spoke. "I want your sympathy, but I know I do not deserve it."
Helen remained silent. A faint flush crimsoned her cheeks, but her eyes were veiled under the long lashes--she thought he could not see them.
"You remember," he went on, "our pleasant times in Scotland? Ah, it is a restful place, your Highland home, with the beautiful purple hills rolling away in the distance, and the glorious moors covered with fragrant heather, and the gurgling of the river that runs between birch and fir and willow, making music all day long for those who have the ears to listen, and the hearts to understand the pretty love tune it sings! You know Frenchmen always have more or less sympathy with the Scotch--some old association, perhaps, with the romantic times of Mary Queen of Scots, when the light and changeful fancies of Chastelard and his brother poets and lutists made havoc in the hearts of many a Highland maiden. What is that bright drop on your hand, Helen?-- are you crying?" He waited a moment, and his voice was softer and more tremulous. "Dear girl, I am not worthy of tears. I am not good enough for you."