Drawing herself up to her full height, Mrs. MacAllister turned on her lion. Her raven black hair, her flashing eyes, her high colour and large, strong frame were the very embodiment of the fearless spirit of her race:
"Lord Lewesthorpe, iss thiss true?"
"It is very apparent that I am not welcome here," he replied. "With your permission, I'll retire."
"Bedad, an ye'd betther, ye cowardly spalpeen!"
Gorman had made one quick step forward, with the evident intention of helping him to retire, when Sinclair's iron grasp closed on his shoulder.
"You're right, docther; I was forgettin' meself."
That was the only departure Gorman made that evening from the strictest rules of the conduct to be expected of the son of an Irish gentleman. And perhaps it wasn't a departure, either, but the most characteristic act of all. In any case, he saw "that spalpeen of a Carteret scattered an' runnin' for cover in total rout an' confushun."
XLI
"GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN"
It was Christmas Day. Not Christmas Day of the North, with its clear frosty air, its robe of virgin snow, its furs, its prancing horses, and tinkling sleigh-bells. It was Christmas Day in the tropics, with a summer sky and summer sun, with roses blooming and rich tropical plants spreading their huge leaves and casting a grateful shade in the botanical gardens. A slight breeze from the northeast tempered the warmth.