“Why on earth didn’t you speak?” he asked presently. There was a certain tartness in the tone of the question which to-day Herriard rather resented.
“I?” he replied. “I had nothing to say. I was not posted on the facts. Besides, they did not want me to get up.”
“Did not want you!” Gastineau echoed impatiently. “What had that to do with it? Your business,” he went on testily, “is to speak when it suits you, not when the Whips please. And as to not being posted in the facts, surely you could have gathered them from the opening speeches. The ineffable Congreve appears to have been in a particularly tight corner; there was your chance of giving the blatant ass a good kicking. But you missed it,” he added, in a tone of disgust.
“Congreve got it pretty hot from all sides, as it was.”
Gastineau made an exclamation of impatience. “Do you think he cared for that sort of basting? The hide of the superior person is thicker than any donkey’s. You must thrust through it and sting; mere drubbing is of no use. Who went for him?”
“Franklin and Hayland more particularly.”
“Pooh!” Gastineau returned contemptuously. “Do you think Congreve, who, after all, has some knowledge of men, cares for either of those? Poor old Franklin with his academical criticisms, and Hayland who is a snob at heart and quite ready to black Congreve’s boots to show that his antagonism is merely of party. And you, with this splendid opportunity to your hand, were content to leave Congreve’s trouncing to those feeble exponents of the art of taking the shine out of aristocratic frauds and weaklings. Upon my word, Geoffrey Herriard, I begin to despair of you.”
The opening for which Herriard was waiting had presented itself.
“In that case,” he returned quietly, “it would be better that our partnership should end.”
Gastineau shot a searching glance at him. “You think so?”