“I came as Richard Jeffray’s friend, sir.”
“Curse you, sir, how dared you show your blackguardly face before my sister!”
Wilson shook himself free from Lot’s hold. He was no angel in the matter of temper, and his patience was giving way under the strain.
“Don’t swear at me, sir,” he said. “If I have been made a fool of I am not going to be kicked for it.”
Mr. Lot fired out a number of oaths, and struck Wilson across the face with the back of his open hand.
“Go, curse you,” he roared, “or I will have you pitched out by the grooms.”
Several of Mr. Lot’s bullies had crowded round, ready to uphold their Achilles in the broil. Dick Wilson, with his red face ablaze and his fists clinched, had fallen back against the wall, and was glaring at Lot Hardacre as though tempted to blood his nose for him then and there. The whole hall was in commotion, many of the guests having turned from the fainting Jilian to watch the quarrel between Mr. Lot and the man in the blue coat. The musicians had stopped playing, and were leaning over the balustrading of the gallery. Sir Peter himself was waddling from the supper-room when Jeffray pushed through the ring of gentlemen about Dick Wilson, and confronted his cousin with flushed face and angry eyes.
“You have struck my guest, Lot,” he said, with his hand on his sword.
Mr. Hardacre swore like a coal-heaver.
“Damnation, cousin, you have insulted us by bringing the fellow here.”