"What's wrong with it?" he demanded sternly. "Who's writin' this book, you or me?"
"I only thought it might be more—"
"You let me alone, son," H.M. urged, with an air of darkly sinister things hidden. "I know what I'm doin'. I got my reasons for usin' just exactly those words. Burn me, if I don't do anything else in this book, I am goin' to right a few old misunderstandings and settle a few old scores. Are you goin' to take down what I say, or not?"
"Right-ho. Fire away."
H.M., ruffled, settled down to resume his interrupted train of thought.
"These rumors," he continued, "were deliberately circulated by my father's second brother, George Byron Merrivale, who may be described with moderation as a bounder and a louse. I will give my readers some idea of this man's character.
"He was warned off the Turf in 1882; kicked out of Boodle's for cheating at cards in the following year; married, sometime in the nineties — I disremember when — Sophy Treliss, because she was supposed to have money; and died of cirrhosis of the liver in 1904, leaving two sons, Robert Blandforth Merrivale and Hugo Parr Merrivale, who now run a bucket-shop in the City and are almost as crooked as he was."
"No," said Courtney, whacking the edge of the little table at which he had been set to take down the great man's reminiscences.
"Oh, for the love of Esau what's wrong now?"
"Libel."