It was Philip of Pembroke, the most outrageous and hot-headed aristocrat in the kingdom, a man whose own friends treated him as they would have treated an open powder-mine, and whose very friendship was often the prelude to a quarrel. Few people had the nerve to sit near him at table, for an argument was his great joy, and his method of debate was so fierce and fanatical that his arguments very frequently took the form of wine bottles and dishes, or any forcible persuader that came to hand. He would quarrel with any one, anywhere, on any topic, and appeared to cherish the conviction that the whole world had conspired to contradict him. Lean, ominous, with a fierce, intent, brown face, his sharp, snapping jowl made him appear more like a mad fanatic than a sane and stately English peer. The marvel was that a man with such a face should waste even his madness on irresponsible brawls and outrages. It was like some fierce Egyptian monk playing insane tricks in Christian Alexandria.
He saluted Hortense with his usual air of restless-eyed and explosive abruptness. She had assumed her utmost graciousness, her full feminine fascination. My lord stared at her for a moment in his queer, distrustful way, and then turned to the figure in the silk cassock.
“Well, you dull dog, how are we to be amused to-night?”
Tom Temple adopted a tone of the blandest deference.
“We have founded a mission, my lord, for the conversion of unkissed females.”
“Damnation, boy, there are none!”
“My Lord of Pembroke is a great authority.”
“Am I? Who told you that? I should like to talk with him a minute. Where are your converts, eh? By my soul, I don’t see many!”
The bishop made an unctuous gesture with his open hands.
“There are an innocent few, my lord.”