“I say!” he exclaimed suddenly, walking more quickly, “other people seem to be quarrelling.”
Sure enough: the trio ahead was standing still; Concha’s lips were twitching and she was looking self-conscious; Rory’s eyebrows were arched in surprise; and David, glowering and thunderous, was standing with clenched fists. As Teresa and Guy came up to them he was saying fiercely: “... and I’m just sick to death of lairds and that ... and if you want to know, I’m heir-apparent to Munroe of Auchenballoch,” and he laughed angrily.
“You’re a lucky chap then ... Auchenballoch is a very fine place,” said Rory in an even voice.
“What’s up?” said Guy.
“I seem to have annoyed Mr. Munroe, quite unintentionally,” answered Rory.
Slowly, painfully, David blushed under his dark skin.
“I beg your pardon,” he murmured.
Teresa felt a sudden wave of intense sympathy for David, and of equally intense annoyance against Rory; he had, doubtless, been again babbling about his relations—“old Lionel Fane,” “the beautiful Miss Brabazons,” and the rest of them—that was boring enough, in all conscience; but if, as was probably the case, David had been left pointedly out of the conversation, it would become, into the bargain, insulting.
And under his easy manners, Rory was so maddeningly patronising—especially to David, with his, “I say! Dashing fellah!” and, “Now then, Munroe, let’s see what you can do.” But ... it was possible that David’s irritation was primarily caused by far more vital things. ’Snice there, lying on his back, his tongue lolling out, his eyes glassy, completely unconscious of the emotional storm raging above him, would probably, if they could have been translated into his own language, have understood David’s feelings better than Teresa and sympathised with them warmly.