“When your passion has blown over,” said Beecher, quietly, “you will perhaps tell me what it is you want or require of me.”
“Want of you,—want of you!” reiterated Davis, more abashed by the other's demeanor than he dared to confess, even to himself,—“what can I want of you? or, if I do want anything, it is that you will remember who you are, and who am I. It is not to remember that you are a Lord, and I a leg,—it is not that I mean,—you 're not very like to forget it; it is to call to mind that I have the same grip of you I have had any day these ten years, and that I could show up the Viscount Lackington just as easily as the Honorable Annesley Beecher.”
If Beecher's cheek grew paler, it was only for a moment, and, with an amount of calm dignity of which Grog had not believed him capable, he said,—
“There's not any use in your employing this language towards me,—there's not the slightest necessity for me to listen to it. I conclude, after what has passed between us, we cannot be friends: there's no need, however, of our being enemies.”
“Which means, 'I wish you a very good-morning, Kit Davis,' don't it?” said Grog, with a grin.
Beecher gave a smile that might imply anything.
“Ah! so that's it?” cried Davis, endeavoring, by any means, to provoke a reply.
Beecher made no answer, but proceeded in most leisurely style with his dressing. #
“Well, that's candid, anyhow,” said Grog, sternly. “Now, I 'll be as frank with you: I thought a few days back that I 'd done rather a good thing of it, but I find that I backed the wrong horse after all. You are the Viscount, now, but you won't be so this day six months.”
Beecher turned his head round, and gave a smile of the most insolent incredulity.