He smoothed his ruffled dress and went home.
Montagu Askew, entering a café with Rupert Greppel one evening, saluted Noll Baddlesmere, where he stood amongst a group of students; and a silence fell upon the place.
“That’s a handsome cane, Askew,” said he—“though they tell me the women have a poor opinion of it.”
Askew’s little gloved hands trembled, and he turned white with anger—as pale as Montagu Askew allowed himself to turn:
“It has belonged to my forefathers for seven generations,” he said—“and every man of them backed his acts with his sword.”
Noll laughed; shrugged his shoulders:
“If your acts are hereditary, it is an excuse for you,” he said.
The following morning, Rupert Greppel and a French cousin called upon Noll; and Rupert stiffly asked if he could refer him to two friends.
“No,” said Noll—Doome was with him—“no—I do not associate with men who associate with Lord Montagu Askew.”