"What in God's name are you driving at?" asked the Colonel, twisting himself round on his chair.
"At your opinion of me. Was I modest, generous, and kind? It's a vital question."
"It's a damned embarrassing one to put to a man during the process of digestion. Well, you know, Oates, you always were a queer beggar. If I had had the summing up of you I should have said: 'Free from vice.'"
"Negative."
"Well, yes—in a way—but——"
"You've answered me. Now another. Do you think I treated my children badly?"
"Really, Oates—oh, confound it!" Angrily he dusted himself free from the long ash that had fallen from his cigar. "I don't see why I should be asked such a question."
"I do. You've known me all your life. I want you to answer it frankly."
Colonel Bagot was stout, red, and choleric. Sir Hildebrand irritated him. If he was looking for trouble, he should have it. "I think you treated them abominably—there!" said he.
"Thank you," said Sir Hildebrand.