young fool shall make apology!”
“With his dying breath,” sneered Trenchard, and the old rake's words, his tone, and the malevolent look he bent upon the boy increased the company's malaise.
“I think,” said Mr. Wilding, with a most singular and excessive sweetness, “that what Mr. Westmacott has done he has done because he apprehended me amiss.”
“No doubt he'll say so,” opined Trenchard with a shrug, and had caution dug into his ribs by Blake's elbow, whilst Richard made haste to prove him wrong by saying the contrary.
“I apprehended you exactly, sir,” he answered, defiance in his voice and wine-flushed face.
“Ha!” clucked Trenchard, irrepressible. “He's bent on self-destruction. Let him have his way, in God's name.”
But Wilding seemed intent upon showing how long-suffering he could be. He gently shook his head. “Nay, now,” said he. “You thought, Mr. Westmacott, that in mentioning your sister, I did so lightly. Is it not so?”
“You mentioned her, and that is all that matters,” cried Westmacott. “I'll not have her name on your lips at any time or in any place—no, nor in any manner.” His speech was thick from too much wine.
“You are drunk,” cried indignant Lord Gervase with finality.
“Pot-valiant,” Trenchard elaborated.
Mr. Wilding set down at last the glass which he had continued to hold until that moment. He rested his hands upon the table, knuckles downward, and leaning forward he spoke impressively, his face very grave; and those present—knowing him as they did—were one and all lost in wonder at his unusual patience.
“Mr. Westmacott,” said he, “I do think you are wrong to persist in affronting me. You have done a thing that is beyond forgiveness, and yet, when I offer you this opportunity of honourably retrieving...” He shrugged his shoulders, leaving the sentence incomplete.
The company might have spared its deep surprise at so much mildness. There was but the semblance of it. Wilding proceeded thus of purpose set, and under the
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