“Nonsense!” cried Sir Harry. “Nonsense, man; you can’t quarrel with a guest. Never mind the toast. Sit down, and let’s have a rubber. Rockley’s a bit excited, Mellersh. Don’t take any notice of a few hot words.”
“Silence!” cried Rockley, whose voice was thick with the brandy he had been imbibing day by day. “I want my toast drunk as it should be—Claire Denville.”
“Sit down, man,” cried several of his brother-officers. “Here, let’s have a rubber. Sit down, Rockley, and cut. Come, Mellersh.”
The latter shrugged his shoulders, and allowed himself to be drawn into a game, cutting, and finding himself Rockley’s adversary.
He was singularly fortunate, and in addition he played with the skill of a master, the consequence being that he and Sir Harry Payne won.
Rockley rose from the table furious with suppressed anger, and, catching up a pack of cards, he would have thrown them in Mellersh’s face had not Sir Harry struck at his arm, so that the cards flew all over the room.
Mellersh turned pale, but a couple of the most sober officers drew him aside, Sir Matthew joining them directly.
“Don’t take any notice, Mellersh,” he said. “We’re all sorry. Rockley’s as drunk as an owl. They’re going to get him off to bed.”
“It was a deliberate insult, gentlemen,” said Mellersh quietly.
“Yes, but he doesn’t know what he’s about,” said Sir Matthew. “We all apologise.”