He was gazing with knit brows
upon the floor. Then he raised his head.
"You return to the subject of your friend," he said, coldly.
"Yes. The subject is agreeable."
"Well, I can give you intelligence of him--unless Swartz has
anticipated me."
"What intelligence?"
"Your friend Mohun is in love--again!"
The woman's face flushed suddenly.
"With whom?" she said.
"Ah! there is the curious part of the affair, madam!" returned Darke.
And in a low tone he added:--
"The name of the young lady is--Georgia Conway."
The woman half rose from her chair, with flashing eyes, and said:--
"Who told you that?"
Darke smiled. There was something lugubrious in that chilly mirth.
"An emissary on whom I can rely, brought me the intelligence," he said,
"Colonel Mohun was wounded in the battle of Fleetwood, and entering a
house where _she_ was nursing the wounded, fainted, and was caught in
her arms. From that moment the affair began. She nursed him, and he was
soon healed. I had myself inflicted the wound with a pistol
ball--but the hurt was trifling. He got well in a few days--and was
ready to meet me again at Upperville--but in those few days the young
lady and himself became enamored of each other. She is proud, they say,
and had always laughed at love--he too is a woman-hater--no doubt from
some old affair, madam!--but both the young people suddenly changed
their views.
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