“Vastly!” said Mr Drelincourt, eyeing him with resentment.
The Earl pulled a chair forward and sat down. “You see, I had the felicity of meeting your friend Puckleton,” he explained. “His account of your condition quite alarmed me. My stupid gullibility, of course. Upon reflection I perceive that I should have guessed from his description of Pelham’s swordplay that he was prone to exaggerate.”
“Oh,” said Mr Drelincourt, with a self-conscious laugh, “I don’t profess to be Winwood’s match with swords!”
“My dear Crosby, I did not suppose you a master, but this is surely over-modesty?”
Mr Drelincourt said stiffly: “My Lord Winwood is known to be no mean exponent of the art, I believe.”
“Well, no,” replied the Earl, considering the point. “I don’t think I should call him mean. That is being too severe, perhaps. Let us say a moderate swordsman.”
Mr Drelincourt gathered the scattered sheets of the Morning Chronicle together with one shaking hand. “Very well, my lord, very well, and is that all you have to say? I am ordered to rest, you know.”
“Now you put me in mind of it,” said the Earl, “I remember there was something else. Ah yes, I have it! Do tell me Crosby—if you are not too exhausted by this tiresome visit of mine, of course—why did you call Pelham out? I am quite consumed by curiosity.”
Mr Drelincourt shot a quick look at him. “Oh, you might well ask! Indeed, I believe I should have made allowance for his lordship’s condition. Drunk, you know, amazingly drunk!”
“You distress me. But continue, dear cousin, pray continue!”