A ripple of merry laughter followed this unexpected turn of events. One or two spectators, who had stood quite close at the very moment that the catastrophe occurred, declared subsequently that milor had with a quick action of his foot thrown Monsieur de Stainville off his balance; the intense slipperiness of the parquet having merely done the rest.
Be that as it may, the laughter of necessity was prudently suppressed, for already Gaston had picked himself up and there was that in his face which warned all those present that the farce—such as it was—would prove the prelude to real and serious tragedy.
"There now," said Lord Eglinton blandly, "did I not warn you, Monsieur le Comte? Graceful flourishes are apt to be treacherous."
"Milor. . ." said Gaston, who was livid with rage.
"Hush—sh—sh," interrupted milor in the same even and gentle voice, "not in the presence of ladies. . . . An you desire, Monsieur le Comte, I'll be at your service later on."
Then he turned toward his wife, bowing low, but not in the least as Gaston de Stainville would have bowed, for he had inherited from his father all the stiffness of manner peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon race.
Thus at this moment he looked distinctly gauche, though not without dignity, as, his back slightly bent, his left arm outstretched, he waited until Lydie chose to place her hand on his sleeve.
"Your seconds, milor," shouted Gaston, who seemed quite unable to control himself, and who had to be distinctly and even determinedly held back by two of his friends from springing then and there at Lord Eglinton's throat.
"They will wait on yours to-night, Monsieur le Comte," replied le petit Anglais affably. "Madame la Marquise, will you honour me?"
And Lydie took his arm and allowed him to lead her out of the room.