“And finally, you’re on no account to lay a finger either on Miss Travers or on Dora Bellairs.”
“Hullo! I’m not in the habit of beating women at any time, let alone at a lunch-party.”
“I mean what I say: you’re not to touch either of them. If you do you’ll spoil it. You’re to go for Miss Bussey.”
“She’s not done me any harm.”
“Never mind. As soon as the row begins and I say, ‘Save the ladies!’ you collar Miss Bussey. See?”
“Oh, I see. Seems to me we’re going to have a lively lunch. Am I to carry the old lady?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, by Jove! How’s my biceps? Just feel, will you?”
Deane felt and gravely pronounced the muscle to be equal to its task. Laing was much gratified, and awaited the unknown future with philosophic patience.
Sir Roger had predicted “a jolly lunch,” but, in its early stages, the entertainment hardly earned this description. Something was wrong somewhere; Dora started by refusing, very pointedly, to sit near Charlie Ellerton; and yet, when she found herself between Ashforth and Laing, she was absent, silent, and melancholy. Charlie, on the other hand, painfully practised a labored attentiveness to Mary Travers which contrasted ill with his usual spontaneous and gay courtesy. Miss Bussey wore an air of puzzled gravity, and Laing kept looking at her with a calculating eye. He seemed to be seeking the best grip. Lady Deane and the General, engrossed in a tjte-`-tjte discussion, did little to promote the hilarity of the table, and it was left to Deane to maintain the flow of conversation as he best could. Apparently he found the task a heavy one, for, before long, he took a newspaper out of his pocket, and, ` propos to one of his own remarks, began to read a highly decorated account of the fearful injuries under which the last victim of the last diabolical explosion had been in danger of succumbing. Sir Roger read his gruesome narrative with much emphasis, and as he laid down the paper he observed: