Her fingers closed round the stem of her wine-glass; she was looking at the ruby liquid sparkling in it. “Often, sir. Why should you suppose me cast in the heroic mould?”
“I’d a notion you’d a vast deal of courage, my friend,” placidly replied Fanshawe.
“Good Gad, sir, why? Because I would fight Rensley?”
“That, and some other things.” Sir Anthony drained his glass, and refilled it, glancing at the untouched wine in the glass Prudence still held.
He selected a nut from the dish, and became busy with the cracking of it. Now was her moment, while his eyes were bent on his plate. Prudence raised her glass to her lips, as though to toss off the whole; there was a quick practised turn of the wrist, over in a flash, and the contents of her glass were sent down her arm.
But quicker even than her own movement, Sir Anthony leaned forward. His hand shot out, and the hard fingers closed round her wrist. Relentlessly her arm was borne down: down till the glass she held emptied its dregs on to the floor.
She made no effort to break free; perhaps she breathed a little faster. The fingers were clamped still about her wrist; Sir Anthony was looking down at her hand, watching the wine trickle down her arm, and drip on to the carpet.
She sat perfectly still; her eyes were calm, even meditative, resting on Fanshawe’s face. She had lost some of her colour, and the lace at her bosom rose and fell rather quickly, but other signs of alarm there were not.
It seemed an age before her wrist was released. At last the merciless fingers left it, and Sir Anthony sat back in his chair. She brought her hand up, and set the glass down on the table. In a detached manner she noticed that her hand did not shake, and was vaguely pleased.
The large gentleman’s voice broke in on her reflections. “There is no Borgia blood in my veins, Peter Merriot.”