He threw his glass in a frenzy into the fireplace, and screeched out, “Two to one in ponies on madame!”
The lady cried “Ah-bah! He tink me of the ‘fancy.’” For all her assumed heat she was really self-possessed. Ned understood her to be playing a part; but he could not yet comprehend how he was concerned in it. He took up his uncle’s sword.
“These,” he said coolly, “are dangerous toys. But, if madame will play with them, I must prevent her from doing harm to herself or me.”
She gave a little staccato shriek of mockery, and attacked him without hesitation. The monkey still perched on her shoulder. With her third pass, Ned felt that his life was in the hands of a consummate tireuse; her fourth took him clean through the fleshy part of the right shoulder.
Madame withdrew and lowered the red lance, that dropped a little crimson on the carpet, like an overcharged pen. The tipsy old lord had scrambled to his feet. His inflamed eyes seemed to gutter like expiring dips. He yelled out oaths and blasphemy.
“Kill him!” he shrieked: “I hate him—do you hear! kill him!”
Ned, reeling a little, and clutching at a chair-back, dimly wondered if this were indeed but a villainous plot to rid his kinsman of a detested incubus. He felt powerless and sick, but madame’s voice reassured him.
“Bah!” she cried gruffly, “you are very tipsy indeed. Hold your tongue, and drink some more wine!”
He was conscious, then, of her near neighbourhood; of the fact that she was binding up his arm.
“It is leetle—but enough,” he heard her mutter.