And he smiled.
“What d’you mean?” said Sir Seymour, longing to knock the fellow down, and feeling an almost insuperable difficulty in retaining his self-control.
“This I mean! You say you come to me sent by Miss Van Tuyn. But I say—no! You come to me sent by Lady Sellingworth.”
Sir Seymour was startled. Was the fellow so brazen that he was going to allude to what had happened over ten years ago? That seemed incredible, but with such a man perhaps everything was possible.
“It is like this!” continued Arabian, in a suave and explanatory voice. “Lady Sellingworth she hates Miss Van Tuyn. They have quarrelled about a young man. His name is Craven. I have met him in a restaurant. I dine there with Miss van Tuyn. He dines there that night with Lady Sellingworth, who is in love with him, as old women are with nice-looking boys, and—”
“Hold your tongue, you infernal blackguard!”
“Miss Van Tuyn calls Craven to us, and Lady Sellingworth is so jealous that she runs out of the restaurant, so that he is obliged to follow her and leave Miss Van Tuyn—”
“You damned ruffian!” said Sir Seymour.
His face was congested with anger. He put out his arm as if he were going to seize Arabian by the collar of his jacket. For once in his life he “saw red”; for once he was forced by indignation into saying something he would never have said had he given himself time to think. He was carried away by impulse like a youth in spite of his years, of his white hair, of his immense natural self-control.
Arabian moved backwards with a swift, wary movement. Sir Seymour did not follow him. He stood where he was and said again: