There was nothing unusual in this. Rather, it seemed the act of a genial host, trying to smooth over the obvious tension of his guests.
“Gentlemen, I give you the health of the King.
“Gentlemen, to a strong and united Britain.” And so forth.
But after these stock phrases, suitable for such an occasion, his words began to take on a more personal tone, which bordered at times on outright sarcasm.
During the first several toasts, Arthur had worn the air of a righteous man who would not be pacified. But as their nature and content became more inflammatory, and their number far exceeded decorum, he became first agitated, then flushed and quite angry. The latter speeches of Purceville ran something like this:
“Gentleman, to the health of vibrant leaders.” To Arthur, an obvious slur against his age and recurring angina.
“Gentlemen, to the gallant soldiers who conquer and protect, so that others may live comfortably from their labors.” The Secretary had never been more than a token officer, nor served in a single campaign.
“Gentlemen, to those with the strength and courage to make their own way in the world.” And so on.
Finally the aged aristocrat stood defiantly, and raised his own cup high. “I see no gentleman before me,” he retorted. “But I will answer his challenge.” And he glared about the room. “To the truth about low-born men. And to those who will not leave their treachery in darkness, but hold it forth in the hard light of day.”
The gathering, already hushed and apprehensive, now fell silent as a stone. For unlike his rival, Arthur had made no attempt to hide his animosity, or to engage in verbal cat-and-mouse.