Subsiding into impertinence, he asked Laxley, “Could you tip us a Strephonade, sir? Rejoiced to listen to you, I’m sure! Promise you my applause beforehand.”
Harry replied hotly: “Will you step out of the room with me a minute?”
“Have you a confession to make?” quoth Jack, unmoved. “Have you planted a thorn in the feminine flower-garden? Make a clean breast of it at the table. Confess openly and be absolved.”
While Evan spoke a word of angry reproof to Raikes, Harry had to be restrained by his two friends. The rest of the company looked on with curiosity; the mouth of the chairman was bunched. Drummond had his eyes on Evan, who was gazing steadily at the three. Suddenly “The fellow isn’t a gentleman!” struck the attention of Mr. Raikes with alarming force.
Raikes—and it may be because he knew he could do more than Evan in this respect—vociferated: “I’m the son of a gentleman!”
Drummond, from the head of the table, saw that a diversion was imperative. He leaned forward, and with a look of great interest said:
“Are you? Pray, never disgrace your origin, then.”
“If the choice were offered me, I think I would rather have known his father,” said the smiling fellow, yawning, and rocking on his chair.
“You would, possibly, have been exceedingly intimate—with his right foot,” said Raikes.
The other merely remarked: “Oh! that is the language of the son of a gentleman.”