Keith starts up—his hot young blood aflame: "What do you mean—do you dare insinuate——"
The Count's laugh falls across the horrified silence of the guests as they draw near.
"Insinuate? No, monsieur—it is for you to explain, I think."
"I have nothing to explain," says Keith proudly. "There is no proof that that card belonged to me. If you doubt my word, my honour, I am perfectly willing to answer for both."
"Hush! hush! what are you saying," cries Lady Jean, horrified. "Of course it is a mistake. Mr. Athelstone, pray be calm."
Calm! The hot blood is rushing through Keith's veins—his eyes have their worst and most passionate light. "Your friend has thought fit to insult me, madame," he says. "I demand an apology or—satisfaction."
"Pardieu, monsieur!" laughs the Count, in his most insulting manner. "I am sorry I cannot answer your first demand; as to the other—I am at your service."
There is an instant's silence. Women with blanched faces, men with surprise and embarrassment, look on these two who face each other—on the tall, slight figure with its dauntless grace of bearing, on the blue eyes flaming with anger and defiance; and then on the cruel, smiling lips, and calm, dark face of the Hungarian.
Count Karolyski turns, says a few words to a man near by, and then, with a bow, leaves the room.
Keith turns to Lady Jean. "I regret that such a scene should have happened in your house," he says, calming his voice by a violent effort. "You will excuse my withdrawing now, madam?" She has grown very pale. As he quits the salon she follows him.