Silverstairs, after swallowing a glass of Chablis, meditatively lit a cigar. But meditation was not his forte. The twentieth of his name, he was tall and robust. He had straw-coloured hair, blue eyes, a skin of brick, and an appearance of simple placidity. At the moment he was mentally fondling certain reminiscences of the Isis and certain bouts with bargees there.
“You know,” he said at last, “if I were you I would just march up to him and knock him down.”
Verplank nodded. “I dare say. But not if he had taken your wife.”
The suggestion, penetrating the earl’s placidity, punctured it. He threw back his head. “By George! If he had, I’d kill him.”
“There, you see!”
Silverstairs puffed at his cigar. His placidity now was reforming itself.
“Yes,” he answered. “But then in taking yours, he did it after she was divorced. You can’t have him out for that.”
“All the same there are one too many of us.”
Silverstairs filled his mouth with smoke. Longly, with an air of considering the situation he expelled it. Then he said:
“It is what I call damned awkward. But what the deuce can you do?”