You can't laugh him out of it or reason him out of it.

When we met him just now, I happen to know that he was on his way to the office of the police minister, to send out fresh agents to search and inquire through the Roman States for the place where his uncle was shot.

And, mind, all this time he professes to be passionately in love with Miss Elmslie, and to be miserable at his separation from her.

Just think of that! And then think of his self-imposed absence from her here, to hunt after the remains of a wretch who was a disgrace to the family, and whom he never saw but once or twice in his life.

Of all the 'Mad Monktons,' as they used to call them in England, Alfred is the maddest.