“Oblige me by recollecting that I have called him a friend of mine,” said Evan.
Rose murmured to him: “Pray forgive me! I forgot.” Laxley hummed something about “taste.” Aunt Bel led from the theme by a lively anecdote.
After breakfast the party broke into knots, and canvassed Laxley’s behaviour to Evan, which was generally condemned. Rose met the young men strolling on the lawn; and, with her usual bluntness, accused Laxley of wishing to insult her friend.
“I speak to him—do I not?” said Laxley. “What would you have more? I admit the obligation of speaking to him when I meet him in your house. Out of it—that’s another matter.”
“But what is the cause for your conduct to him, Ferdinand?”
“By Jove!” cried Harry, “I wonder he puts up with it: I wouldn’t. I’d have a shot with you, my boy.”
“Extremely honoured,” said Laxley. “But neither you nor I care to fight tailors.”
“Tailors!” exclaimed Rose. There was a sharp twitch in her body, as if she had been stung or struck.
“Look here, Rose,” said Laxley; “I meet him, he insults me, and to get out of the consequences tells me he’s the son of a tailor, and a tailor himself; knowing that it ties my hands. Very well, he puts himself hors de combat to save his bones. Let him unsay it, and choose whether he’ll apologize or not, and I’ll treat him accordingly. At present I’m not bound to do more than respect the house I find he has somehow got admission to.”
“It’s clear it was that other fellow,” said Harry, casting a side-glance up at the Countess’s window.