“Hardly that,” said Pembroke, quietly. “Made drunk by your precious cousin, Ahlberg.”
“I’ll send Louis away if you desire me,” cried Madame Koller, eagerly.
“I desire nothing of the kind. It is no affair of mine. Come, Cole, you’ve done the best you could by apologizing. I’ll see that those fellows say nothing about it. Good evening, Madame Koller.”
“Must you go, Pembroke—now—”
“Immediately. Good-bye,” and in two minutes he and Cole were out of the house.
CHAPTER VII.
To say that Pembroke was angry with Cole is hardly putting it strong enough. He ardently longed that he might once again inflict a thrashing upon him like those Cole had been wont to receive in his school days. He had taken the little clergyman to Malvern, and kept him a day or two before sending him home to his mother. Cole’s remorse was pitiful. He wanted to write to the whole House of Bishops, to make a public reparation, to do a number of quixotic things which Pembroke’s strong sense forbade peremptorily. When after two days of sincere, but vociferous penitence, Mr. Cole was at last sent back to his rectory, he went under strict instructions from Pembroke to keep his misfortune to himself. But alas for poor Cole! What stung him most was that Madame Koller should have seen him in that condition—for the two hard slaps that she had given him had by no means cured his infatuation. On the contrary, her strong nerves, her fierce temper, her very recklessness of conventionality, irresistibly attracted his timid and conservative nature. What had offended Pembroke, who looked for a certain feminine restraint in all women, and gentleness, even in daring, had charmed Cole. His anguish, when he found, that in addition to his paroxysm of shame, he suffered tortures because he could no longer see Madame Koller, almost frightened him into convulsions.
Pembroke had meant to be very prudent with Ahlberg, and particularly to avoid anything like a dispute. He felt that the natural antagonism between them would be likely to produce a quarrel unless he were remarkably careful, and as he regarded Ahlberg with great contempt, he had a firm determination never to give him either cause or chance of offense. According to the tradition in which he had been raised, a quarrel between two men was liable to but one outcome—an archaic one, it is true, but one which made men extremely cautious and careful not to offend. If a blow once passed it became a tragedy. Pembroke promised himself prudence, knowing that he had not the coolest temper in the world. But when, some days after the dinner, they met, this time in the road also, and Ahlberg’s first remark was “What capital fun we had with our friend Cole!” Pembroke’s temper instantly got the better of him.
“Mr. Ahlberg, do you think it quite a gentlemanly thing to invite a man like Cole to accept your hospitality in a woman’s house, and then deliberately to make him drunk?” asked he.
Ahlberg’s sallow skin grew a little paler.