“Bring your friend with you, sir. By-the-way, who is he?” And Chiffinch took Stephen Gore familiarly by the button and dropped his voice to a forced whisper.
My lord’s dignity did not falter. He had caught a peculiar look in his son’s eyes that pricked the pride in him.
“Gentlemen, Captain John Gore, my son.”
They bowed, all of them, with sarcastic deference.
“Delighted, sir.”
“You have seen hard service, sir.”
“No doubt you are a great traveller. May I ask your honor whether it is true that the Spaniards in Peru grow their beards down to their belts?”
The man in the red coat showed no trace of temper.
“I lost my laces and my ribbons on the coast of Africa, gentlemen,” he said. “They are a slovenly crew—those Barbary corsairs. It is a pleasure to find myself once more among—men.”
My lord stood regarding the upper windows of a house with stately unconcern. He glanced sharply at his son, and then bowed to Chiffinch and his party.