“Go, curse you,” he roared, “or I will have you pitched out by the grooms.”
Several of Mr. Lot’s bullies had crowded round, ready to uphold their Achilles in the broil. Dick Wilson, with his red face ablaze and his fists clinched, had fallen back against the wall, and was glaring at Lot Hardacre as though tempted to blood his nose for him then and there. The whole hall was in commotion, many of the guests having turned from the fainting Jilian to watch the quarrel between Mr. Lot and the man in the blue coat. The musicians had stopped playing, and were leaning over the balustrading of the gallery. Sir Peter himself was waddling from the supper-room when Jeffray pushed through the ring of gentlemen about Dick Wilson, and confronted his cousin with flushed face and angry eyes.
“You have struck my guest, Lot,” he said, with his hand on his sword.
“Damnation, cousin, you have insulted us by bringing the fellow here.”
“And my sister, sir. Deuce take me, Richard Jeffray, if you weren’t my cousin I’d have you and this fellow ducked in the horse-trough. Deuce take me, I would.”
There was an enthusiastic murmur of approval from Mr. Lancelot’s friends. Jeffray, utterly mystified, yet thoroughly angered none the less, looked as though ready to take his cousin at his word. Wilson, who had recovered some of his equanimity, stepped forward suddenly and laid his great hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“Richard Jeffray,” he said, with a fierce glance at Lot, “let there be no blood-spilling on my account. It is my fault, sir, and this gentleman, your cousin, is justified in construing my presence here into an insult.”
“Lick the dirt, my bully,” he said, “but I must have a word with Cousin Richard.”
Wilson interposed between the two, keeping his eyes fixed fiercely on Mr. Hardacre’s face.
“Your kinsman is as innocent as a child, sir,” he said; “the blame is mine. I offer you my apologies for causing such a scene. You can find me at Rodenham if you think fit.”
Wilson, looking quite the fine gentleman for once, bowed to Mr. Lancelot, and, elbowing the grinning toadies aside, strode towards the door with his shoulders squared. Richard, still hopelessly befogged, stared at his cousin, and then followed the painter. The Lady Letitia was sailing down the room, the light of battle in her eyes. She called her nephew to her and commanded him to give her his arm.