“They 'd cut a great figure, I 've no doubt, Hotham, on the quarter-deck of the 'Thunder Bomb,' where you eke out the defects of a bad band with a salute from your big guns, and give your guests the national anthem when they want champagne. Oh dear, there's no snob like a sailor!”
“Well, if they 're not good enough for you, why the devil do you ask them?” cried Hotham, sturdily.
“Sir, if I were to put such a question to myself, I might shut up my house to-morrow!” And with this very uncourteous speech he arose and left the room.
We continued, however, to fill in the cards of invitation and address the envelopes, but with little inclination to converse, and none whatever to refer to what had passed.
“There,” cried Cleremont, as he checked off the list. “That makes very close on seven hundred. I take it I may order supper for six hundred.” Then turning half fiercely to me, he added: “Do you know, youngster, that all this tomfoolery is got up for you? It is by way of celebrating your birthday we're going to turn the house out of the windows!”
“I suppose my father has that right, sir.”
“Of course he has, just as he would have the right to make a ruin of the place to-morrow if he liked it; but I don't fancy his friends would be the better pleased with him for his amiable eccentricity: your father pushes our regard for him very far sometimes.”
“I 'll tell him to be more cautious, sir, in future,” said I, moving towards the door.
“Do so,” said he. “Good-night.”
I had scarcely taken my bedroom candle when I felt a hand on my shoulder: I turned and saw Madame Cleremont standing very pale and in great agitation at my side. “Oh, Digby,” said she, “don't make that man your enemy whatever you do; he is more than a match for you, poor child!” She was about to say more when we heard voices in the corridor, and she hurried away and left me.