“Oh, you are much better!” cooed the voice. “But gently, sir. Don’t, I implore you, overtax your strength.”
Mr Markham’s gaze came to rest on a flowered waistcoat. He put a hand to his head, and his eyes travelled slowly up the waistcoat to Mr Merriot’s grave face. Mr Merriot was on one knee, glass of wine in hand; Mr Merriot looked all concern.
Recollection came.
“Burn it, you’re the fellow — ” Mr Markham’s hand went to his jaw; he glared at Peter Merriot. “Did you — By God, sir, did you — ?”
“Let me help you to a chair, sir,” said Mr Merriot gently. “In truth you are shaken, and no wonder. Sir, I cannot sufficiently beg your pardon.”
Mr Markham was on his feet now, dizzy and bewildered. “Was it you knocked me down, sir? Answer me that!” he panted.
“Alas, sir, I did!” said Mr Merriot. “I came in to find my sister struggling, as I thought, in your arms. Can you blame me, sir? My action was the impulse of the moment.”
Mr Markham was put into a chair. He fought for words, a hand still held to his jaw. “Struggling? she flung herself at me in a swoon!” he burst out.
Miss Merriot was kneeling at his feet, napkin in hand. Mr Markham thrust it aside with an impotent snarl. “You have the right to be angry, sir,” sighed Miss Merriot. “’Twas all my folly, but oh sir, when the bustle started, and they were crying fire without I scarce knew what I did!” Her fair head was bent in modest confusion. Mr Markham did not heed her.
“Blame you? blame you? Yes, sir, I can!” he said wrathfully. “A damnable little puppy to — to — ” Words failed him; he sat nursing his jaw and fuming.