"I don't see how he could manage to reel about, if he were dead drunk!"
"Really, Cyril! To take it in such a way! To make a joke of it, almost! And such a dreadful thing! . . . And you can actually stoop to call that man your friend! Captain Lucas—a drunkard—the friend of Sir Cyril Devereux!" Sybella spoke with more force of expression than she usually had at command.
The arrow went home: only Cyril's brain substituted the word "father-in-law" for "friend." He had grown white, and his brows were drawn sternly together. He cracked half-a-dozen nuts in quick succession, tossing each aside, and asked only—
"Have you done?"
"I suppose you don't believe me, but it is true. Perfectly true. As you will find to your cost. Some day," asserted Sybella, with agitated breaks.
"The main fact is true. Lady Lucas has only improved upon it a little—not more than one might reasonably expect! He was not 'dead drunk,' and he did not require to be carried, I believe—but unhappily, he did take too much."
"As he does constantly—every other day."
"You are misinformed. He has not failed once in the last year and more—till now."
"My dear Cyril! If I did not know it on the best authority—"
Cyril's mutter was unintelligible.