He entered the house, and Anthony closed the door.
"I'm very sorry, my lord, about the roses." He held out the two pound notes. "I entirely forgot them."
Lord Pomfret snatched the notes out of his hand.
Anthony turned to go.
"Here!" Anthony stopped in his stride, hesitated, and then turned back. "What d'you mean, 'you forgot'? It's a lie. This is the second time you've let me down, you wash-out. And if you think——"
"My lord, I tell you——"
"Don't dare to answer me," raved the other. "I won't have it. Listen to me. My mother doesn't approve of servants who stay out all night—even if they are gentlemen. I'll bet you're ready to pitch a hell of a tale, but it's no good, Lyveden. D'you hear? It's no good. You see, I answered the telephone on Friday, when your lady-friend rang up about the dog…. I know that dog, Lyveden, I've had one myself. And, what's more, I happened to be at Marylebone this morning…. Yes. That was a bit of bad luck, wasn't it? So next time you want a week-end——"
Anthony hit him full on the mouth.
The other reeled backward, tripped over a rug, and fell heavily. He was up in an instant, and came at Anthony, bellowing like a madman.
Anthony, who was now quite cool, hit him between the eyes.