“Then let's have her out o' bed,” cried John Rex, plunging to the door.
Tomkins, attempting to restrain him, is instantly hurled into a cabinet of rare china, and the drunken brute essays the stairs. The other servants seize him. He curses and fights like a demon. Doors bang open, lights gleam, maids hover, horrified, asking if it's “fire?” and begging for it to be “put out”. The whole house is in an uproar, in the midst of which Lady Devine appears, and looks down upon the scene. Rex catches sight of her; and bursts into blasphemy. She withdraws, strangely terrified; and the animal, torn, bloody, and blasphemous, is at last got into his own apartments, the groom, whose face had been seriously damaged in the encounter, bestowing a hearty kick on the prostrate carcase at parting.
The next morning Lady Devine declined to see her son, though he sent a special apology to her.
“I am afraid I was a little overcome by wine last night,” said he to Tomkins. “Well, you was, sir,” said Tomkins.
“A very little wine makes me quite ill, Tomkins. Did I do anything very violent?”
“You was rather obstropolous, Mr. Richard.”
“Here's a sovereign for you, Tomkins. Did I say anything?”
“You cussed a good deal, Mr. Richard. Most gents do when they've bin—hum—dining out, Mr. Richard.”
“What a fool I am,” thought John Rex, as he dressed. “I shall spoil everything if I don't take care.” He was right. He was going the right way to spoil everything. However, for this bout he made amends—money soothed the servants' hall, and apologies and time won Lady Devine's forgiveness.
“I cannot yet conform to English habits, my dear mother,” said Rex, “and feel at times out of place in your quiet home. I think that—if you can spare me a little money—I should like to travel.”