Sir Charles, who, waiting to speak, had been repeatedly baffled by the hasty speeches of his wife and the unhesitating replies of Trefusis, now turned angrily upon her, saying:
“What do you mean by inviting that fellow to my house?”
“Your house, indeed! I will invite whom I please. You are getting into one of your tempers.”
Sir Charles looked about him. Erskine had discreetly slipped away, and was in the road, tightening a screw in his bicycle. The few persons who remained were out of earshot.
“Who and what the devil is he, and how do you come to know him?” he demanded. He never swore in the presence of any lady except his wife, and then only when they were alone.
“He is a gentleman, which is more than you are,” she retorted, and, with a cut of her whip that narrowly missed her husband’s shoulder, sent the bay plunging through the gap.
“Come along,” she said to Erskine. “We shall be late for luncheon.”
“Had we not better wait for Sir Charles?” he asked injudiciously.
“Never mind Sir Charles, he is in the sulks,” she said, without abating her voice. “Come along.” And she went off at a canter, Erskine following her with a misgiving that his visit was unfortunately timed. [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]