My lord’s piercing eyes flashed at that. “I make allowance for a lover’s feelings!” he cried. “But while I live she stands in no need of another’s protection. I am the person to guard her, Sir Anthony.”
“You are, sir, certainly,” Fanshawe said. There was an edge to his words which did not escape my lord.
“I admire my forbearance. Concede me a great patience. You may call it toleration. I do not call you out. I curb myself!”
“I could not possibly meet my future father-in-law, so pray continue to curb yourself, sir.”
“You need have no fear. But were I to meet you, sir, you would lie dead at my feet within the space of five minutes. Possibly less. I do not know.” He appeared to give the matter his consideration.
“That,” said Robin reluctantly, “is really true.”
Sir Anthony preserved his calm. “I don’t think it. But I trust his lordship will spare me.”
His lordship signified with a gracious wave of his hand that he would spare Sir Anthony. “But do not try me too far!” he warned. “Like all men of great brain, I am choleric when pressed. You give me to understand that you do not consider that I — I, Tremaine of Barham! — can take care of my daughter!”
“Not in the least, sir. I make no doubt you can. But when you permit her to engage on so dangerous a masquerade — ”
“Permit?” cried my lord. “You conceive that my children thought of this for themselves? Your partiality makes you blind. Mine was the brain that evolved this plot; mine was the inspiration. I do not permit: I ordain.”