“Drink?” said Sir Hilton, sharply, his voice perfectly clear and distinct. “Yes, cursed stuff! Gooseberry wine, I believe. Vintage of France? Pish! Pretty France! Old gooseberry! Don’t order any more, Jack. Dry champagne; dry enough to mix with paint. Have S. and B.”
“Here, I’m not going to bully you now. Shake yourself up. You must be coming on now.”
“Eh? What for? Coming on?”
“Yes!” cried Granton, in a passion. “Hang it, man, you’re regularly fuddled!”
“Fuddled? I? Absurd! Only a glass or two. Look at me. Fuddled! You’re a fool, Jack! Oh, yes, I remember—the race.”
“Then come on,” cried Granton. “You look all right.”
“Oh, yes, I’m all right. Did you think I was tight?”
“Well, something of the kind. Come along.”
“Don’t hang on to a man like that,” said Sir Hilton, shaking himself free with an angry jerk. “Want to spoil my satin? Hi! Ha! Sh!”
He made a rush, and two or three cuts in the air with his whip, which the trainer, who was standing back in the office watching, took to mean given at him, and slipped behind the door.