The gentleman sheathed his sword and bowed.
“My name is Scarsdale, sir,” said he. “I had the pleasure of meeting you in Paris lately—at the Marquise de Sauvray’s rout, if you remember?”
“I do not, sir.”
Mr. Scarsdale took out his snuff-box, stared at it, tapped it, fumbled with it and bowed.
“My dear Sir John,” said he, “if I had the curst misfortune to ... ah ... to cross you in the matter of ... an ... Yon rustic Venus ... poach on your preserves, ’twas done all unwitting and I apologise.... A delicious creature; I felicitate you.”
“Mr. Scarsdale,” answered Sir John, “I accept your explanation. At the same time, I take leave to point you to the fact that this inn is small and I detest being crowded. May I then venture to suggest that you and your friend seek accommodation—elsewhere?”
“How, sir—how, Sir John?” stammered Mr. Scarsdale, running nervous hand over wigless, close-cropped head. “You ... you ask us to—to——”
“Favour me with your absence, sir.”
For a moment Mr. Scarsdale stood mute; his face grew suddenly red and as swiftly pale, his eyes glared, his large teeth gleamed evilly, but noting Sir John’s resolute air, his piercing gaze, the serene assurance of his pose, Mr. Scarsdale commanded himself sufficiently to bow with a flourish.
“Tom,” quoth he to his silent companion, “ha’ the goodness to pick up my wig.” Receiving which indispensable article, he clapped it on somewhat at random and, hurrying from the room with the silent Tom at his heels, was presently heard calling for horses and chaise and damning all and sundry louder than ever until, with a stamp of hoofs and rattle of wheels, he was borne damning on his way.