His voice was thick.
"Why apologize, Hubert? You know that it has been my devoted wish that
you marry Berenice." He swayed on his perch. Hubert's brain was in a
fog.
"Berenice!" said he.
"Yes--Berenice. Why not? She loves you."
"Then--you--Madame Mineur--" stammered Hubert. The Frenchman placed his
finger on his nose and slyly whispered:--
"Don't be afraid! I'll not tell my wife that I caught Berenice with you
alone in the park--you Don Juan! Now to the portrait--I must see that
masterpiece of yours. Berenice wrote me about it." He nodded his head
sleepily.
"Berenice wrote you about it!" was the mechanical reply.
"I'll join you and we'll go to the house." He tried to step down, but
rolled over at Hubert's feet.
"What a joke is this champagne," he growled as he was lifted to his
tottering legs. "We had a glorious time this afternoon before I left
Paris. Hurrah! You're to be my son-in-law. And, my boy, I don't envy
you--that's the truth. With such a little demon for a wife--I pity you,
pity you--hurrah!"
"I am more to be despised," muttered Hubert Falcroft, as they moved away
from the peaceful moonlit wall.
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