“Damn it, you asked for that!” Cholmondley swore. “Take it back, you fool! We all know you’re drunk.”
The Marquis had resumed his seat. The waiter looked frightened, and whispered to him. My lord turned on him with something like a snarl, and the man fled.
Lord Rupert got up rather unsteadily. “Fiend seize it, the champagne’s got into my head!” he said. But the sudden interlude seemed to have jerked him back to sobriety. “There’s been enough of this,” he said authoritatively. “You be damned for a fool, Vidal. Can’t you see the fellow’s drunk?”
Lord Vidal laughed. “I’m drunk myself, Rupert, but I can tell when a man calls me cheat.”
“Good God, my lord, you’ll never care for what’s said after the third bottle!” cried Captain Wraxall.
Lord Cholmondley gave Mr. Quarles’s arm a shake. “Take it back, man; you’re out of your senses.”
Mr. Quarles wrenched himself free. “You’ll meet me for this, my lord!” he roared.
“Be sure I will,” said the Marquis. “Well settle it now, my buck.”
Rupert took up the dice. “Break ’em,” he said briefly. “Where’s that rogue Timothy? I want a hammer.”
Sir Horace Tremlett, he of the mincing speech, protested. “I vow it’s not necessary, my lard. We know my Lard Vidal, I believe. Break the dice? ’Pon my soul, sir, it’s to insult his lardship.”