The Duke stood up, and, raising the goblet, tossed off the contents at a draught.
A brave old toper! with something pathetic in this last defiance, for all its sordidness.
"And now," quoth he, aloud and very sternly, "I'll have my carriage and go home."
The Prince of Wales laid a detaining hand on the velvet sleeve of his outraged guest.
"No, no," he cried thickly. "I vow we'll make a night of it. You've promised to sleep here, Jockey. You'll not go against your Prin--Prince's commands. You can't complain ... entertainment."
"I'll go," he growled, with an oath. "I see through such hospitality, Your Highness."
The thought of the trap made his blood boil. But the Howard honour was at stake. He would not sleep beneath the roof of the man who had wished to stain it.
Alas! they called the carriage, but, before it could drive to the Pavilion doors, the hoary head of England's premier Duke lay helpless on the table, with that chuckling, mocking throng around, glorying in their successful wit, and finding the sight of shamed grey hairs hugely entertaining.
It was the sort of jest Florizel delighted in, though historians clack so much of his good-nature and kindly heart.
Poor old Jockey of Norfolk! He managed somehow to stumble to his carriage, bidding the postillions drive him to Arundel. But the Prince was loath to part with his fun, and gave other orders.
So, for half an hour, they drove him round the Pavilion lawn, whilst in the porch stood a crowd of revellers laughing and mocking at the helpless old figure inside.
Presently they lifted him out and put him to bed in the Pavilion. He awoke to find himself there in the morning, and the bitterness of that awakening stayed with him to his dying day.
A goodly jest, indeed, for a Prince and gentleman! Yet Florizel, debauchee, gambler, libertine, has his admirers to this day. A rare, merry fellow indeed, this German princeling! A noble ruler for old England later on.
So thought Michael Berrington, bitterly enough, as he sat grim and disapproving at the table till he could bear the spectacle no longer.
Sir Stephen already lay half insensible on the floor--excuse enough for the son to carry an erring father home.
Lord Denningham had his sneers there. As for Morice Conyers and Monsieur Trouet, they were not present, though they had driven to Brighton on Denningham's coach.