Lumley then deliberately drew towards him his inkstand--"No penknife!--Ah, true, I never mend pens--sad waste--must send out for one." He rang the bell, ordered a penknife to be purchased, and the servant was still out when a knock at the door was heard, and in a minute more Cesarini entered. "Ah," said Lumley, assuming a melancholy air, "I am glad that you are arrived; you will excuse my having written to you so unceremoniously. You received my note--sit down, pray--and how are you? you look delicate--can I offer you anything?" "Wine," said Cesarini, laconically, "wine; your climate requires wine." Here the servant entered with the penknife, and was ordered to bring wine and sandwiches. Lumley then conversed lightly on different matters till the wine appeared; he was rather surprised to observe Cesarini pour out and drink off glass upon glass, with an evident craving for the excitement. When he had satisfied himself, he turned his dark eyes to Ferrers, and said, "You have news to communicate--I see it in your brow. I am now ready to hear all." "Well, then listen to me; you were right in your suspicions; jealousy is ever a true diviner. I make no doubt Othello was quite right, and Desdemona was no better than she should be. Maltravers has proposed to my cousin; and been accepted." Cesarini's complexion grew perfectly ghastly; his whole frame shook like a leaf--for a moment he seemed paralysed. "Curse him!" said he, at last, drawing a deep breath, and betwixt his grinded teeth--"curse him, from the depths of the heart he has broken!" "And after such a letter to you!--do you remember it?--here it is. He warns you against Lady Florence, and then secures her to himself--is this treachery?" "Treachery black as hell! I am an Italian," cried Cesarini, springing to his feet, and with all the passions of his climate in his face, "and I will be avenged! Bankrupt in fortune, ruined in hopes, blasted in heart--I have still the godlike consolation of the desperate--I have revenge." "Will you call him out?" asked Lumley, musingly and calmly. "Are you a dead shot? If so, it is worth thinking about; if not, it is a mockery--your shot misses, his goes in the air, seconds interpose, and you both walk away devilish glad to get off so well. Duels are humbug." "Mr. Ferrers," said Cesarini, fiercely, "this is not a matter of jest." "I do not make it a jest; and what is more, Cesarini," said Ferrers, with a concentrated energy far more commanding than the Italian's fury, "what is more, I so detest Maltravers, I am so stung by his cold superiority, so wroth with his success, so loathe the thought of his alliance, that I would cut off this hand to frustrate that marriage! I do not jest, man; but I have method and sense in my hatred--it is our English way." Cesarini stared at the speaker gloomily, clenched his hand, and strode rapidly to and fro the room. "You would be avenged, so would I. Now what shall be the means?" said Ferrers.