“I might be a number of different persons,” drawled Sir Richard.
Pen’s eyes were getting rounder and rounder, for it appeared to her that this new and haughty Sir Richard was deliberately trying to provoke Captain Trimble into quarrelling with him.
For a moment it seemed as though he would succeed. Captain Trimble started forward, with his fists clenched, and an ugly look on his face. But just as he was about to speak, his expression changed, and he stopped in his tracks, and ejaculated: “You’re Beau Wyndham! Well, I’ll be damned!”
“The prospect,” said Sir Richard, bored, “leaves me unmoved.”
With the discovery of Sir Richard’s identity, the desire to come to blows with him seemed to have deserted the Captain, He gave a somewhat unconvincing laugh, and said that there was no offence.
The quizzing-glass focused upon his waistcoat. A shudder visibly shook Sir Richard. “You mistake—believe me, you mistake, sir. That waistcoat is an offence in itself.”
“Oh, I know you dandies!” said the Captain waggishly. “You’re full of quips. But we shan’t quarrel over a little thing like that. Oh, no!”
The quizzing-glass fell. “I am haunted by waistcoats,” Sir Richard complained. “There was something with tobine stripes at Reading, horrible to any person of taste. There was a mustard-coloured nightmare at—Wroxham was it? No. I fancy, if memory serves me, Wroxham was rendered hideous by a catskin disaster with pewter buttons. The mustard-coloured nightmare came later. And now, to crown all—”
“Catskin?” interrupted Captain Trimble, his eyes fixed intently upon that disdainful countenance. “Catskin, did you say?”
“Pray do not keep on repeating it!” said Sir Richard. “The very thought of it—”