“Small blame to him, Colonel,” said the Adjutant with tipsy gravity; “’tis very good.”
“And disagreed with his master early in the evening,” said the Doctor.
Here there was a roar of laughter, in which the greyheaded Colonel joined.
“Well, gentlemen, we must not be hard,” he said. “Here, Smith, my compliments to Major Rockley, and if he is better, say we shall be glad to see him.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, “here is the Major.”
At that moment the gentleman in question entered the room, and the brilliant illumination of the table gave a far better opportunity for judging his appearance than the blind-drawn gloom of Lady Teigne’s drawing-room. He was a strikingly handsome dark man, with a fierce black moustache that seemed to divide his face in half, and then stood out beyond each cheek in a black tuft, hair highly pomatumed and curled, and bright black eyes that seemed to flash from beneath his rather overhanging brows. Five-and-thirty was about his age, and he looked it all, time or dissipation having drawn a good many fine lines, like tracings of future wrinkles, about the corners of his eyes and mouth.
“Colonel—gentlemen, a hundred apologies,” he said. “I’m not often taken like this. We must have a fresh mess-man. Our cooking is execrable.”
“And your digestion so weak,” said the Doctor, sipping his port.
“There, there,” said the Colonel hastily. “I want to get to bed. Take my place, Rockley; keep them alive. Good-night, gentlemen; I know you’ll excuse me. Good-night.”
The Colonel left his seat, faced round, stood very stiffly for a few moments, and then walked straight out of the room, while Major Rockley, who was still far from sober, took his place.