Then the door opens, and a rather elderly servant appears upon the threshold.
"Martin, Sir Penthony will lunch here," says Cecil, calmly. "And—stay, Martin. Do you think it likely you will dine, Sir Penthony?"
"I do think it likely," replies he, with as much grimness as etiquette will permit before the servant.
"Sir Penthony thinks it likely he will dine, Martin. Let cook know. And—can I order you anything you would specially prefer?"
"Thank you, nothing. Pray give yourself no trouble on my account."
"It would be a pleasure,—the more so that it is so rare. Stay yet a moment, Martin. May I order you a bed, Sir Penthony?"
"I am not sure. I will let you know later on," replies Stafford, who, to his rage and disgust, finds himself inwardly convulsed with laughter.
"That will do, Martin," says her ladyship, with the utmost bonhommie. And Martin retires.
As the door closes, the combatants regard each other steadily for a full minute, and then they both roar.
"You are the greatest little wretch," says Sir Penthony, going over to her and taking both her hands, "it has ever been my misfortune to meet with. I am laughing now against my will,—remember that. I am in a frantic rage. Will you tell me what all that scene between you and Luttrell was about? If you don't I shall go straight and ask him."