“Yes,” said Sir Richard, flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve. “And I imagine I am not the only one privileged to hear you.”
“You are a dandy!” uttered the Major, with loathing. “A dandy, sir! That’s what you are!”
“Well, I am glad that the haste with which I dressed has not obscured that fact,” replied Sir Richard amiably. “But the correct term is Corinthian.”
“I don’t care a fig what the correct term may be!” roared the Major, striking the table with his fist. “It’s all the same to me: dandy, Corinthian, or pure popinjay!”
“If I lose my temper with you, which, however, I should be loth to do—at all events, at this hour of the morning—you will discover that you are mistaken,” said Sir Richard. “Meanwhile, I presume that you did not bring me out of my bed to exchange compliments with me. What, sir, do you want?”
“Don’t take that high and mighty tone with me, sir!” said the Major. “That whelp of yours has made off with my daughter!”
“Nonsense!” said Sir Richard calmly.
“Nonsense, is it? Then let me tell you that she has gone, sir! Gone, do you hear me? And her maid with her!”
“Accept my condolences,” said Sir Richard.
“Your condolences! I don’t want your damned condolences, sir! I want to know what you mean to do!”