But Raymond remained immovable, as if he were glued to the carpet.
“Come, my dear friend, come!” Sir Simon called out, in a voice that was meant only to be kind and encouraging, but in which those who knew its tones detected a nervous note.
“I will not!” said the count in a sharp, high key. “I will not submit to such an indignity; it has been got up for the purpose of insulting me. I refuse to submit to it!”
He turned to leave the room.
“Raymond, you are mad! You must do it!” cried Sir Simon imperatively.
“I am not mad! I am poor!” retorted the count, facing round and darting eyes of defiance at Sir Simon. “This person, who calls himself a gentleman, has insulted me from the moment I sat down to table with him, and you allowed him to do it. He taunted me with my poverty; he would make out now that because I am poor I am a thief! I have borne with him so far because I was at your table; but there is a limit to what I will bear. I will not submit to the outrage he wants to put upon me.”
Again he turned towards the door.
“You shall hand out my ring before you stir from here, my fine sir!” cried Mr. Plover, taking a stride after him, and stretching out an arm as if to clutch him; but Sir Simon quick as thought intercepted him by laying a hand on the outstretched arm, while Ponsonby Anwyll stepped forward and placed his tall, broad figure like a bulwark between Raymond and his assailant.
“Let me go!” said the latter, shaking himself to get free from the baronet’s clasp; but the long, firm fingers closed on him like grim death.
“You shall not touch M. de la Bourbonais in my presence,” he said; “you have insulted him, as he says, already. If I had seen that he detected what was offensive in your tone and manner, I would not have suffered it to pass. Stand back, and leave me to deal with him!”