“I said, a gentleman——” began old George, then lapsed into silence.
“What gentleman?” asked Connor roughly.
“I am speaking of myself,” said the old man, and there came into his face a curious expression of dignity. “I say, and I maintain, that a gentleman is a gentleman whatever company he affects. At my old college I once reproved an undergraduate.” He was speaking with stately, almost pompous distinctness. “I said, ‘There is an axiom to which I would refer you, De gustibus non est disputandum, and—and——’”
His shaking fingers went up again to the tell-tale mouth, and the vacant smile came back.
“Look here,” said Connor, shaking his arm, “we don’t want to know anything about your damned college; we want to know how Angel got into our crib.”
The old man looked puzzled.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered; “of course, Mr. Connor, you have been most kind—the crib—ah!—the young man who wanted to rent or hire the room upstairs.”
“Yes, yes,” said Connor eagerly.
“A most admirable young man,” old George rambled on, “but very inquisitive. I remember once, when I was addressing a large congregation of young men at Cheltenham—or it may have been young ladies—I——”
“Curse the man!” cried Goyle in a fury. “Make him answer, or stop his mouth.”