The Italian looked quickly from one face to the other. Some mischief he could smell in the air, and all his sharp little brain was on the alert. “I do not try to teach him Baiser. You — yes, I will show. But I do not show Mr Rensley, nor you, milor, nor Saire Raymond eizer.”
“You’ve no heart, Gally, positively you’ve none,” Sir Anthony told him. “Have a little pity on poor Rensley!”
Mr Rensley stood still beside Sir Raymond. He had shut his mouth hard, but his eyes smouldered. Mr Molyneux was looking curiously at Fanshawe, but my lord, by the window, watched Rensley and chuckled. It was a jest he could appreciate.
“You don’t apprehend the matter,” Sir Anthony went on persuasively, still twirling his glass. “Here’s Rensley feels he must let some blood — not his own, of course — and hits on the very man. That’s to say, it seemed so — one of your youthful sprigs from the country. Ideal, you perceive. But the devil was in it that the sprig was held to have some cunning tricks of fence — possibly your Baiser, Gally; who knows? Naturally poor Rensley’s monstrous put out over it, and what else should he do but fly to our friend Galliano? And you fail him, Gally! It’s unkind in you, upon my word it is. Poor Rensley will be forced to withdraw from the engagement, I fear me.”
The chuckle died on my Lord Kestrel’s lips; Sir Raymond looked round quickly. Mr Rensley took two steps towards Sir Anthony, and spoke in a voice barely controlled. “Will you be good enough to explain these remarks, Sir Anthony?” he demanded.
Sir Anthony turned slowly to face him. Mr Rensley was by no means a small man, but the lazy eyes looked down at him. Sir Anthony stopped twirling his glass, and though he smiled still it was not his usual genial expression, but on the contrary a smile rather disdainful, and with the hint of sternness behind it. “Certainly, Mr Rensley. But I should have thought my meaning was plain enough. No doubt you have your reasons for not wishing to comprehend it.”
Rensley reddened. “This is not the first time you’ve sneered at me, Sir Anthony!”
“Nor the last, Rensley, unless the colour of your coat should change.”
“You make your meaning quite plain, I thank you, sir! You choose to think me a coward because I chance to take an hour’s practice here today.”
“You have it quite wrong, my good Rensley,” said Sir Anthony imperturbably. “I choose to think you a coward because you forced a quarrel on a man well-nigh young enough to be your son.”