Of his embarrassed hatred of them he gave immediate evidence. For he first began several sentences of praise of Tietjens' heroism which he was unable to finish and then getting quickly out of his chair exclaimed:
"In the circumstances then . . . the little matter I came about . . . I couldn't of course think . . ."
Tietjens said:
"No; don't go. The matter you came about—I know all about it of course—had better be settled."
Port Scatho sat down again: his jaw fell slowly: under his bronzed complexion his skin became a shade paler. He said at last:
"You know what I came about? But then . . ."
His ingenuous and kindly mind could be seen to be working with reluctance: his athletic figure drooped. He pushed the letter that he still held along the tablecloth towards Tietjens. He said, in the voice of one awaiting a reprieve:
"But you can't be . . . aware . . . Not of this letter. . . ."
Tietjens left the letter on the cloth, from there he could read the large handwriting on the blue-grey paper:
"Mrs. Christopher Tietjens presents her compliments to Lord Port Scatho and the Honourable Court of Benchers of the Inn. . . ." He wondered where Sylvia had got hold of that phraseology: he imagined it to be fantastically wrong. He said: