“No, no, dearest!”
“Madam,” said Sir John in his gentlest voice, “I pledge my word this gentleman shall not fight my Lord Sayle now or at any other time——”
“You—oh, you are sure, sir?”
“Upon my soul and honour, madam!”
“Then go, Jasper, if you must. But be not long or I shall swoon or run mad!”
“She ... my wife is ... is not ... very strong, sir,” stammered the young gentleman as they ascended the broad stair with the imperturbable Robert at their heels.
“And so very young, sir!” said Sir John sympathetically.
My Lord Sayle was at wine, supported by his two companions, Sir Roland Lingley and Major Orme, and surrounded by young bloods and country beaux who hearkened to his dicta eagerly and viewed with eyes of awesome envy this man who had flashed his terrible steel so often. My lord, used to such hero-worship, condescended to unbend, and was animadverting for their behoof upon the delicate point as to how and when and why to take up a quarrel, when he became aware of a stir at the door, of a quick, light footstep, of a holly-stick that with sudden, graceful twirl swept decanter and glasses crashing to the floor in splintered ruin, of a face delicately pale and lighted by a pair of long-lashed eyes that glared down at him, and of Sir John Dering’s high-pitched, drawling, hated voice:
“If there is any one present who feels himself in the very least affronted, I shall be most happy to accommodate him on the spot!” And, dropping the holly-stick, Sir John drew sword, before whose glitter the company drew back as one man.