"And his curst secret ways," added Mr. Marchdale, "and his treatment of that fellow of his—Dalroyd's room was next mine and I know he's beaten the poor rogue damnably more than once of late."
"Haw—that's true enough!" exclaimed Captain West, "heard the miserable dog myself. Dismally a-groaning a-nights. More than once, haw!"
"And yesterday, just as he mounts to ride away Dalroyd must fall a-kicking the fellow—in the open street and with us standing by! And kicked him, look you, not as a gentleman should but with such vicious pleasure in it—faith, 'twas positively indecent!"
"Od's life, sir, and that's true—indecent is the word!" nodded Sir Benjamin tapping his snuff-box, "and gentlemen, if the human optic, basilisk-like, could blast soul and wither flesh—Dalroyd would have hem! I say would have known—ha—would have made a sufficiently uncomfortable not to say painful exit—or setting forth the matter in plainer terms Dalroyd hem——"
"Hold hard, Ben!" yawned Alvaston. "Y' gettin' lost again. What our Ben wants t' say 's simply Dalroyd's f'low looked bloody murder 'n so he did."
"Ha—begad! He did so!"
"Dalroyd is well enough enjoyed now and then," said Mr. Marchdale sententiously, "but as a constant diet is apt to become devilish indigestible! And as regards his unfailing lack with the cards, I shouldn't wonder——"
"Then don't, Tony—don't!" murmured Lord Alvaston, crossing his slender legs. "Dalroyd may be this, that or t'other, but Dalroyd ain't here—enough of him."
"Aye, true," nodded Sir Benjamin, "true indeed, Dalroyd is gone and we, dear Major, like this year's roses, are going too. In a week sir, this fraternity amorous will suffer disruption, our lady hath so decreed, the fiat hath gone forth."
"Indeed sir, you surprise me!" said the Major, glancing from one to another, "whence comes this?"