Card-playing went on for a time, the stakes being light, and then succeeded a bout of drinking, when, with a contemptuous look at Mellersh, Rockley, who had been drinking hard, and was strange and excitable, called upon the party to honour a toast he was about to propose.
“Claire Denville,” he cried in a curious, reckless tone which made Sir Harry stare.
Mellersh involuntarily glanced round, as if fearing that Richard Linnell was present.
“Well, Colonel,” said Rockley mockingly, “you don’t drink. Surely you are not trying to steal away my mistress.”
“I? No,” said Mellersh. “I did not know you had one.”
“Hang it, sir!” cried Rockley, “I have just given her name as a toast. Do you refuse to drink it?”
“Yes,” said Mellersh coldly. “It seems to me bad taste to propose the health of a lady whose father is under sentence of death, and whose brother is dying not many yards away.”
“Curse you, sir! who are you, to pretend to judge me?” cried Rockley furiously. “Gentlemen, I protest against this sort of thing. What was Lascelles thinking about to invite him, after what has taken place between us?”
“Here, Rockley, be quiet,” said Sir Matthew.
“I shall not,” cried Rockley. “It is an insult to me. The Colonel shall answer for it, and this Mellersh too.”