“He was good enough to souse himself this morning,” volunteered Penelope. “I rather like him.”
“By Jove, Cecil, you're not afraid to meet him, are you?” asked the duke with tantalizing coolness. “You know, if you are, I'll go over and talk to the fellow.”
“Afraid? Now, hang it all, Barminster, that's rather a shabby thing to suggest. You forget India.”
“I 'm trying to. Demmed miserable time I had out there. But this fellow fights. That's more than the beastly natives did when we were out there. Marching is n't fighting, you know.”
“Confound it, you forget the time—”
“Mon Dieu, are we to compare ze Hindoo harem wiz ze American feest slugger?” cried the count, with a wry face.
“What's that?” demanded two noblemen in one voice. The count apologized for his English.
“No one but a coward would permit this disagreeable Shaw creature to run affairs in such a high-handed way,” said her ladyship.
“Of course Cecil is not a coward.”
“Thank you, my dear. Never fear, ladies and gentlemen; I shall attend to this person. He won't soon forget what I have to say to him,” promised Lord Bazelhurst, mentally estimating the number of brandies and soda it would require in preparation.