“As you please, sir.”
Major Dalrymple, with his thick lips dropped apart, was gazing breathingly at his sulky neighbour. The latter, conscious of the inquiring scrutiny, pulled himself erect—a cub of ill-temper.
“Curse it!” he muttered, with a surly sidelong glance. “What am I being stared at for, curse it?”
“Your pardon, my lord,” said the major, in a high, stiff voice. “I looked only to inquire your stake.”
“I can settle it myself, sir, without your help”—and, with a very meaning action, he held his cards face-downwards upon his breast.
The major went back in his chair, his corded hands thrust out rigidly before him on the table.
“My lord Dunlone,” he said, “impugns not only my judgment, but my honour!”
“Oh, curse it!” cried the Viscount. “What have I said?”
“It was your action spoke, sir.”
Sir Robert laughed recklessly.