“What the devil are you talking about? Whom do you mean?”
“Yes,” said Hockmaster, nodding in a melancholy way. “I thought I was a mean skunk. You are disgusted.”
Raine seized him by the collar and shook him.
“Answer my question—which lady do you mean?”
“Oh!” said Hockmaster, “of course. You don't know. Why, the sweetest, prettiest woman there, sitting next to you. I guess she was upset at seeing me.”
He went on talking. But Raine heard no more. His brain was in a whirl, a nausea was at his heart. His prized meerschaum fell from his hand, and, knocking against the seat, dropped broken on to the ground; but he was unconscious of it. Everything blazed before him in a livid light. A horrible repulsion from the inert, ignoble figure sprawling beneath him grew into a loathing anger. His fingers thrilled to seize the American again by the collar and shake the life out of him like a rat.
“You damned little cad—betraying her to a stranger—you infernal, drunken little cad!”
Controlling his rage with a great effort, he turned, and strode away with set teeth. He heard the American's voice calling him, but he went on.
“Hallo! Chetwynd!” cried Hockmaster, rising with difficulty to his feet. “Chetwy—ynd!”
He staggered forward a couple of paces and then fell prone. After a few ineffectual efforts to get up, he abandoned the attempt, and lay quiescent.