“Sapristi!” he mouthed. “Mais je vous montrerai, Speet smoke, qu’on ne gagne rien à insulter un sportsman.”
Nicholas very nearly returned to Town.
The man was shocked. At one and the same moment he had made two striking discoveries—severally harmless enough, but jointly corrosive. The first was that Susan Crail was a waster: the second, that he loved her very much. What made things infinitely worse was that, as women go, she was a queen. Spotted silk is so much worse than stained sackcloth. Unearthing more bitterness, he reflected that never again would he be offered the blessed opportunity of wooing without his title to promote his suit.
He avoided Susan but watched her, taking care to conceal his disappointment and wearing it on his sleeve.
Susan could have wept, was careful to appear blithesome and got away with it.
Labotte was as good as his word.
His vanity had been outraged. Very well. All the chivalry of the man rose up in condemnation of the foul deed. His hate had to be served. After surveying his dirty armoury with a malevolent stare, he turned his attention to his opponent’s harness.
Almost immediately he perceived a vulnerable spot.
Miss Crail was a lady, and ladies had an aversion to figuring in scenes. Indeed, to avoid a scene they would endure almost anything. . . .