Murrel once more changed the subject to his original frivolities.
“Well, well,” he said, “these social problems will never be settled till we fall back on my expedient. All the nobility and culture of France assembled to see Louis XVI put on the red cap. How impressive it will be when all our artists and leaders of thought assemble to see me reverently blacking Lord Seawood’s face.”
Braintree was still looking at Julian Archer with a darkened face.
“At present,” he said, “our artists and leaders have only got so far as blacking his boots.”
Archer sprang up as if he had been named as well as looked at.
“When a gentleman is accused of blacking boots,” he said, “there is danger of his blacking eyes instead.”
Braintree took one bony fist out of his pocket.
“Oh I told you,” he said, “that we reserve the right to strike.”
“Don’t play the goat, either of you,” insisted the peace-maker, interposing his large red paint-brush, “don’t rampage, Jack. You’ll put your foot in it–in King Richard’s red curtains.”
Archer retired slowly to his seat again; and his antagonist, after an instant’s hesitation, turned to go out through the open windows.