It is unhappily not necessary to describe the scene that followed. Mr. Blapton made a brave fight for his epaulettes, fighting chiefly with his cocked hat, which was bent double in the struggle. Mrs. Blapton gave all the assistance true womanliness could offer and, in fact, she boxed the ears of one of his assailants very soundly. The intruders were rescued in an extremely torn and draggled condition from the indignant statesmen who had fallen upon them by tardy but decisive police....
Such scenes sprinkle the recent history of England with green and purple patches and the interest of this particular one for us is only because of Georgina’s share in it. That was brought home to Sir Isaac, very suddenly and disagreeably, while he was lunching at the Climax Club with Sir Robert Charterson. A man named Gobbin, an art critic or something of that sort, one of those flimsy literary people who mar the solid worth of so many great clubs, a man with a lot of hair and the sort of loose tie that so often seems to be less of a tie than a detachment from all decent restraints, told him. Charterson was holding forth upon the outrage.
“That won’t suit Sir Isaac, Sir Robert,” said Gobbin presuming on his proximity.
Sir Isaac tried to give him a sort of look one gives to an unsatisfactory clerk.
“They went there with Sir Isaac’s tickets,” said Gobbin.
“They never——!”
“Horatio Blenker was looking for you in the hall. Haven’t you seen him? After all the care they took. The poor man’s almost in tears.”
“They never had tickets of mine!” cried Sir Isaac stoutly and indignantly.
And then the thought of Georgina came like a blow upon his heart....
In his flurry he went on denying....