This but while one might blink an eye, then Lord Balmerino interrupted. “God’s my life! Here’s a feery-farry about nothing. Put up your toasting fork, De Vallery! The lad will not bite.”
“Warranted to be of gentle manners,” I murmured, brushing again at the Mechlin lace of my coat.
“Gentlemen are requested not to tease the animals,” laughed Creagh. He was as full of heat as a pepper castor, but he had the redeeming humour of his race.
Macdonald beat down the swords. “Are you a’ daft, gentlemen? The lad came with Balmerino. He is no spy. Put up, put up, Chevalier! Don’t glower at me like that, man! Hap-weel rap-weel, the lad shall have his chance to explain. I will see no man’s cattle hurried.”
“Peste! Let him explain then, and not summer and winter over the story,” retorted O’Sullivan sourly.
Lord Balmerino slipped an arm through mine. “If you are quite through with your play acting, gentlemen, we will back to reason and common sense again. Mr. Montagu may not be precisely a pronounced Jack, but then he doesn’t give a pinch of snuff for the Whigs either. I think we shall find him open to argument.”
“He’d better be—if he knows what’s good for him,” growled O’Sullivan.
At once I grew obstinate. “I do not take my politics under compulsion, Mr. O’Sullivan,” I flung out.
“Then you shouldn’t have come here. You’ve drawn the wine, and by God! you shall drink it.”
“Shall I? We’ll see.”