He tore around the room and knocked two ornaments off the mantelpiece and upset a table, which Bob laboriously restored to its place. After he had put it back three times, he gave it up and cowered under the storm.
"I shouldn't be surprised if this was put on," said Bob, rather gloomily. "I know he can act like blazes; Pen says he can. She said he was finer than Irving or Toole in a tragedy. I don't think it has the true ring of sincerity."
And making his escape from the cyclone, he went off to see Goby, who was hideously jealous of Carteret Williams.
"I hope he won't be as mad as the marquis," said Bob. "That table barked my shins horribly the last time it fell. I wish Frenchmen wouldn't shout so when they're angry; I'm nearly deaf."
There was the devil to pay with Goby. He announced his intention of assaulting Williams at once.
"Oh, I say, you mustn't," cried Bob, in great alarm. "She'll never forgive you."
"That Williams!" said Goby. "I always did hate war correspondents. I don't believe it."
But it looked as if he did.
"I dare say you are putting it on," cried Bob. "I don't know where I am."
Goby said he didn't, either, but that if this turned out to be true he would wring Williams's neck in the park the first fine Sunday in June.