There was something so boyish in the tone of complaint, that Luffington insensibly softened to the odd and ill-mannered creature, and smiled broadly.
Mrs. Matcham was affirming the comforts of a back room, when he stopped her shortly with a protest that this was information for Mr. Fitzroy, whom the matter concerned.
‘I tell you, sir, I will not give up my room,’ shouted Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy.
Luffington shrugged, and made a feint of resuming his writing, upon which Mr. Fitzroy plumped down into an arm-chair, crossed his slim legs savagely, and ordered the landlady to bring in his carpet bag, and produce glasses and two bottles of his special port. Luffington said nothing, but smiled as he continued to write, and took a sidelong view of his strange enemy. The more he looked, the more he wondered at the singular prestige of such a person in a place like Fendon. He had not the appearance of a gentleman, was the reverse of imposing, and according to the Flemish priest, was ‘just one of the poorest dogs in Christendom.’
‘He pays Mrs. Matcham thirty shillings a week, and nobody else anything, and he travels third class like myself,’ the priest added, but Luffington thought that his air was that of a man who holds back something.
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, as if he were pointing a cocked pistol at an antagonist, ‘you have an opportunity of assuring yourself that there is good port to be had in at least one inn in Great Britain.’
‘I am ready to accept the fact upon your statement, but I am no judge of port. It’s a wine I never drink.’
‘Claret, I suppose? Abominable trash, but there’s good stuff of that sort too, eh, Mrs. Matcham? Two bottles of one of their castles—Lafitte, La rose—something in that way.’
He yapped out his words like the spoken barks of an angry terrier, and poured himself out a glass of Harborough port, which he fondly surveyed, then tasted with a beatific nod.
‘Nowhere to be had out of England. Bloodless foreigners go to the deuce on their clarets. They’d be content to sit at home, and let their neighbours’ wives alone if they drank port. But then you have to go to an earl’s cellar for anything like this.’