“I did, let me perish!” said Rotherby. “And I wish to the devil I had bit my tongue out first.”
“The loss to eloquence had been irreparable,” sighed Mr. Caryll, his eyes upon a beam of the ceiling.
Rotherby stared and choked. “Is there no sense in you, you gibbering parrot?” he inquired. “What are you—an actor or a fool?”
“A gentleman, I hope,” said Mr. Caryll urbanely. “What are you?”
“I'll learn you,” said his lordship, and plucked at his sword.
“I see,” said Mr. Caryll in the same quiet voice that thinly veiled his inward laughter—“a bully!”
With more oaths, my lord heaved himself forward. Mr. Caryll was without weapons. He had left his sword above-stairs, not deeming that he would be needing it at a wedding. He never moved hand or foot as Rotherby bore down upon him, but his greenish eyes grew keen and very watchful. He began to wonder had he indulged his amusement overlong, and imperceptibly he adjusted his balance for a spring.
Rotherby stretched out to lunge, murder in his inflamed eyes. “I'll silence you, you—”
There was a swift rustle behind him. His hand—drawn back to thrust—was suddenly caught, and ere he realized it the sword was wrenched from fingers that held it lightly, unprepared for this.
“You dog!” said the lady's voice, strident now with anger and disdain. She had his sword.