Nicky came striding up, his eyes sparkling with wrath, his countenance flushed, and sternly admonished Bouncer.
The visitor kept his swordstick poised but raised his eyes, suddenly very wide open, to Nicky’s face. He was breathing a little fast, but his lips smiled, and he said smoothly: “I do not—like—dogs!”
“By God, Cheviot, if you so much as touch my dog with that blade of yours I’ll ram it down your gullet!” swore Nicky, glaring at him.
The smile grew, the arched brows rose. Francis Cheviot restored his blade to its sheath. “What, Nicholas! Determined to purge the world of Cheviots?”
Nicky’s color darkened and his fists clenched themselves involuntarily. Francis Cheviot laughed softly and patted his shoulder with one white hand. “There, there!” he said soothingly. “I was only funning, dear boy! I am sure you would not really ram my blade down my throat.”
“You harm my dog, and you need not be so sure of that!” said Nicky pugnaciously.
“Oh, but I am, Nicholas! I cannot help but be sure of it,” Francis said, in dulcet accents. “But tell me, dear boy, is it quite—quite in the best of good ton for you to be here? Under the circumstances—and pray do not imagine that I blame you for them, for nothing could be farther from my thoughts!—but under these circumstances, do you not feel—No, I see you do not, and indeed, who am I to presume to set myself up as an arbiter? The situation is something quite out of my line.”
“I am staying here,” said Nicky curtly.
“Ah, indeed? How very piquant, to be sure! Crawley, I do trust that you have rung that bell, for if I stand in this disagreeable wind you know I shall take cold, and my colds always descend upon my chest. How thoughtless it was in you to have handed me down from the chaise until the door had been opened! Ah, here is that deplorable henchman! Yes, Barrow, it is I indeed. Take my hat—no, Crawley had best take my hat, perhaps. And yet, if he does so, who is to assist me out of my greatcoat? How difficult all these arrangements are! Ah, a happy thought. You have laid my hat down, Crawley! I do not know where I should be without you. Now my coat, and pray be careful! Where is a mirror? Crawley, you cannot have been so foolish as to have packed all my hand mirrors! No, I thought not. Hold it a little higher, I beg of you, and give me my comb! Yes, that will serve. Barrow, you may announce me to your mistress!”
“Ay, justabout I may!” said the retainer, glowering at him, “It queers me what brings you here, sir, but I’ll tell you to your head you ain’t wanted!”