“Look at Rev. Theo. Logge,” said Peter Skerrett to Ambient; “he pretends to wish that
“‘All the world
Should in a pet of temperance feed on pulse,
Drink the clear stream——’
“But observe, that is not pulse he eats, but pâté of Strasburg, and what he is pouring down is a stream, to be sure, a large one and clear, but it comes from a very poptious bottle. I cannot think it water.”
“I say, Peter,” says Guy, “let’s fuddle the Rev.”
“Guyas Cutus,” reproved Peter gravely, “you are a pagan. I have frequently remarked that difference between Cloanthus and you. You are a pagan and swear ‘I Gaads.’ He is a monotheist and swears ‘I Gaad’. In this case you can spare yourself a sacrilege. Mr. Logge is fuddling himself. Hillo,” he added, looking up suddenly as a cork struck him hard on the ear.
De Châteaunéant had opened a champagne bottle carelessly and had not only bombarded Peter, but had deluged Sir Comeguys. Sir Com looked quietly at the Frenchman, waiting for an apology; none came, but the bottle-holder gave a blackguard laugh. He must have been a little elated by drinking, and reckless. Miss Arabella had been particularly cool to him all day, and it had taken much wine to counterbalance his chagrin. No one saw the little scene except Blinders and Mrs. Budlong, and the banquet went on and off brilliantly.
While the gentlemen were lighting cigars and separating for a few moments from the ladies, Blinders tapped De Châteaunéant on the shoulder.
“Sir Com Ambient would like to say a word to you behind the hill yonder,” he said with a meaning look. “I’ll see fair play for you.”