"Well, what?"
"Oh, nothing. I've neither the mood nor the patience to teach you manners."
His hand went out to take another cigarette from a silver box at his side.
"No smoking," repeated Hipps in a level voice.
"Don't be asinine, my good fool."
His extended hand trembled, yearning to knot itself into a fist. The silver box was just beyond the American's reach but seizing a small glass jug he threw the contents over Richard's hand, drenching the cigarette he had picked up and half filling the box with water. The quickness and effrontery of the action, its insolent disregard of all the laws of courtesy acted on Richard's temper as a spark on gun cotton.
"I'm damned if I'll stand for that," he shouted and kicking his chair out of the way made a dash round the table toward Hipps. It was Laurence who shot out the leg that tripped him and before he could scramble to his feet both the American and the Englishman were sitting on his back.
"Steady, steady, old chap," Laurence beseeched him. "It's an almighty pity to start this way."
Hipps' long fingers had closed scientifically on the back of Richard's neck and were paralysing the movements of his head. His nose was pressed good and hard into the pile of the carpet. It was all very painful.
"Are you going to quit fighting, Anthony?"