George Lord Bramleigh, roundest and youngest of men of six-and-twenty, overtaking Jocelyn Lord Gunner in St. James’s-street, tipped him on the shoulder with his stick-handle. Gunner turned, red in the face.
“Damn you, Bramleigh, shut up,” he said.
“Couldn’t shut up to save my life, old chap,” his friend replied. “I’m so fit I don’t know what to do with myself. Come back into the Fencing Club and make passes at me.”
Gunner growled, “See you shot first,” and walked on. Bramleigh joined him, humming an air.
“Look here,” said Gunner, after a time. “D’you know a man called Duplessis?”
“Rather,” says Lord Bramleigh. “Go on.”
“That’s what he’s doing,” Lord Gunner mused. “His goings-on are awful. He’ll make the lady talked about—and she don’t deserve it.”
The lady must be named, and Lord Bramleigh whistled at her name. Reminiscences of a morning at San Sebastian came upon him, but were withheld. Lord Gunner poured out his grievances.
“I don’t mind a chap hanging round—not one bit. If I wasn’t hanging round myself a good lot I shouldn’t see it, and shouldn’t much care if I did. There’s nothing in that. Besides, there are plenty of us. But he messes about; that’s what I can’t stand. He messes about. And he seems to think she belongs to him.”
“That’s the way to make her,” said the sapient youth. “That’s his little plan.”