“A call from the Duchess of Fitzroy Square,” said Pacey merrily.
“No, sir, it was that Hightalian lady, her as is painted there,” said the girl innocently, and pointing to the canvas leaning against the wall, as she ran out.
“Confound her!” roared Pacey, springing to his feet, and turning upon his friend, with his eyes flashing beneath his shaggy brows; “is there no such thing as truth in this cursed world?”
“What do you mean?” cried Dale hotly, as he crushed the scented note in his hand.
“Samson and Delilah,” said Pacey, with savage mockery in his tones. “Here, Leronde, lad,” he continued, taking up his glass, “a toast for you—Vive la gallantry. Bah!”
He lifted the glass high above his head, but did not drink. He gave Armstrong a fierce, contemptuous look, and dashed the glass into the grate, where it was shivered to atoms.