Storri, as though for Richard's ear, was saying to a vapid young man whom Richard had seen at the club: "Oh! that is Miss Harley;--the one with the blue eyes and black hair.
Bad combination, believe me! I, who am a gentleman--a Russian gentleman--give you my word that blue eyes and black hair mean treason to a lover.

No, I can't take you to her; she has shown a preference for me, and I do not care to distinguish her by too much notice until I have thought her over.

On my soul, yes; I must think her over!" Richard's hand fell heavy and rude on Storri's shoulder.
"Come with me," said he.
Storri had not counted on this; those sacred White House walls should have protected him.

He looked appealingly at his friend.
"Your friend will pardon you," said Richard coolly, "and, for this time, you shall come back safe." Richard drew Storri to a window, where they were by themselves.
"Pay heed to what I shall say," gritted Richard, and his eyes gave forth a gray glimmer, like a saber suddenly unsheathed: "You must never take Miss Harley's name upon your lips.

Should you do so, I shall twist your neck as once I twisted your fingers." Storri began a spluttering stammer of protest and reproach.
"Don't hector me!" whispered Richard, with a sharp fervor of ferocity that made Storri start, "or, when next we meet in the street, I'll take my cane and beat you like a dog!" Storri turned and tried to hide the fear that fed upon him with a tinge of swagger.