"Both. Sit down, please. . . . I am, as you know, a particular friend of Sir Oliver Vyell's."
"Say, rather, his best." Mr. Silk bowed and smiled.
"Possibly. At all events so close a friend that, being absent, he gives me the right to resent any dishonouring suspicion that touches him—or touches his lady. It comes to the same thing."
Mr. Silk cocked his head sideways, like a bird considering a worm.
"Does it?" he queried, after a slight pause.
"Certainly. A rumour is current through Boston, touching Lady
Vyell's virtue; or, at least, her conduct before marriage."
"'Tis a censorious world, Mr. Langton."
"Maybe; but let us avoid generalities, Mr. Silk. What grounds have you for imputing this misconduct to Lady Vyell?"
"Me, sir?" cried Mr. Silk, startled out of his grammar.
"You, sir." Mr. Langton arose lazily, and stepping to the door, turned the key; then returning to the hearth, in leisurely manner turned back his cuff's. "I have traced the slander to you, and hold the proofs. Perhaps you had best stand up and recant it before you take your hiding. But, whether or no, I am going to hide you," he promised, with his engaging smile. Stooping swiftly he caught up the malacca. Mr. Silk sprang to his feet and snatched at the chair, dodging sideways.
"Strike as you please," he snarled; "Ruth Josselin is a—" But before the word could out Batty Langton's first blow beat down his guard. The second fell across his exposed shoulders, the third stunningly on the nape of his neck. The fourth—a back-hander— welted him full in the face, and the wretched man sank screaming for pity.