Ipsden. “If you will do me the honor to use one of mine, it shall be at your service.”
Gatty. “Thank you.”
Ipsden. “To-morrow morning?”
Gatty. “No. I have four days' painting to do on my picture, I can't die till it is finished; Friday morning.”
Ipsden. “(He is mad.) I wish to ask you a question, you will excuse my curiosity. Have you any idea what we are agreeing to differ about?”
Gatty. “The question does you little credit, my lord; that is to add insult to wrong.”
He went off hurriedly, leaving Lord Ipsden mystified.
He thought Christie Johnstone was somehow connected with it; but, conscious of no wrong, he felt little disposed to put up with any insult, especially from this boy, to whom he had been kind, he thought.
His lordship was, besides, one of those good, simple-minded creatures, educated abroad, who, when invited to fight, simply bow, and load two pistols, and get themselves called at six; instead of taking down tomes of casuistry and puzzling their poor brains to find out whether they are gamecocks or capons, and why.
As for Gatty, he hurried home in a fever of passion, begged his mother's pardon, and reproached himself for ever having disobeyed her on account of such a perfidious creature as Christie Johnstone.