“Sir John Dering, is it,” he demanded, “or Mr. Derwent—which?”
“You may have your choice, sir,” answered Sir John pleasantly, “for each of ’em is equally at your service the moment you feel yourself sufficiently recovered, my lord!” And Sir John made to pass on, but Lord Sayle interposed, his air more threatening than ever. Quoth he:
“Sir John Dering, or Derwent, or whatever name you happen to be using—last time we met, sir——”
“To be sure,” smiled Sir John amiably, “I advised your lordship to take fencing lessons——”
“Tee-hee!” screeched old Lord Aldbourne suddenly. “Hee-ha! Fencing lessons! Oh, smite me!”
Sir John slipped nimbly aside just in time to escape my Lord Sayle’s passionate fist; then the two were borne apart amid an indignant whirl of embroidered coat-skirts.
“Shame, my lord, shame!” cried half a dozen voices, while ladies screamed, moaned, grew hysterical, and made instant preparation to swoon in their most becoming attitudes.
“O Ged!” screeched Lord Aldbourne above the hubbub, “I never saw such a dem’d disgraceful exhibition in all my dem’d life! Sayle, you must be mad or dem’d drunk, sir ... in a ladies’ drawing-room full o’ the dear creeters ... oh, dem!” And then, high-pitched, cold and merciless rose my lady’s voice.
“My Lord Sayle, pray have the goodness to retire. Your manners are better suited to your country taverns. Begone, sir, ere I summon my servants!”
In the awful silence that ensued, my Lord Sayle stared vaguely about him like one stupefied with amazement, then, striding to the open door, he stood striving for coherent speech, and when at last utterance came, he stammered thickly: