“Get him out of it,” continued Hargate vehemently. Jimmy’s prohibition against billiards had hit him hard. He was suffering the torments of Tantalus. The castle was full of young men of the kind to whom he most resorted—easy marks, every one—and here he was, simply through Jimmy, careened like a disabled battleship. It was maddening. “Make him go. You invited him here. He doesn’t expect to stop indefinitely, I suppose? If you left, he’d have to, too. What you must do is to go back to London to-morrow. You can easily make some excuse. He’ll have to go with you. Then you can drop him in London and come back. That’s what you must do.”
A delicate pink flush might have been seen to spread itself over Lord Dreever’s face. He began to look like an angry rabbit. He had not a great deal of pride in his composition, but the thought of the ignominious role which Hargate was sketching out for him stirred what he had to its shallow bottom.
Talking on, Hargate managed to add the last straw.
“Of course,” he said, “that money you lost to me at piquet—what was it? Twenty? Twenty pounds, wasn’t it? Well, we would look on that as cancelled, of course. That will be all right.”
His lordship exploded.
“Will it?” he cried, pink to the ears. “Will it, by George? I’ll pay you every frightful penny of it to-morrow—and then you can clear out, instead of Pitt. What do you take me for, I should like to know?”
“A fool, if you refuse my offer.”
“I’ve a jolly good mind to give you a most frightful kicking.”
“I shouldn’t try if I were you. It’s not the sort of game you’d shine at. Better stick to piquet.”
“If you think I can’t pay you your rotten money—”