In the meantime, Sir Francis was helping me to restore my hat to shape, and to don his overcoat.
“Yours is split to the neck,” he said. “Now, let’s go.”
He took my arm, and we strolled off together. The crowd, quite respectful, parted, and we were engulfed in it.
I was grateful to Voules, of course, but inexplicably resentful of his cool masterfulness. Truth to tell, we were souls quite antipathetic; and now he had put me right—with everybody but myself. In a helpless attempt to restore that balance, I snarled fiercely, smacking fist into palm—
“I’ll have the law of that beast! You know him, it seems? I can’t congratulate you on your friends.”
“Sweeting was most to blame,” said Voules quietly.
I grunted, and strode on fuming.
“But, after all,” said Voules, “the poor ass had to back up his confederate.”
I glanced at him as we walked.
“His confederate?”