“I do not fight with... with hucksters,” flashed Sir Oliver. 

 “D’ye dare call me that?” 

 “Indeed, ’tis to discredit an honourable class, I confess it. Nick, the door for Master Godolphin.” 

 

CHAPTER II. ROSAMUND

 Anon, after his visitor had departed, Sir Oliver grew calm again. Then being able in his calm to consider his position, he became angry anew at the very thought of the rage in which he had been, a rage which had so mastered him that he had erected additional obstacles to the already considerable ones that stood between Rosamund and himself. In full blast, his anger swung round and took Sir John Killigrew for its objective. He would settle with him at once. He would so, by Heaven’s light! 

 He bellowed for Nick and his boots. 

 “Where is Master Lionel? he asked when the boots had been fetched. 

 “He be just ridden in, Sir Oliver.” 

 “Bid him hither.” 

 Promptly, in answer to that summons, came Sir Oliver’s half-brother—a slender lad favouring his mother the dissolute Ralph Tressilian’s second wife. He was as unlike Sir Oliver in body as in soul. He was comely in a very gentle, almost womanish way; his complexion was fair and delicate, his hair golden, and his eyes of a deep blue. He had a very charming stripling grace—for he was but in his twenty-first year—and he dressed with all the care of a Court-gallant. 

 “Has that whelp Godolphin been to visit you?” he asked as he entered. 

 “Aye,” growled Sir Oliver. “He came to tell me some things and to hear some others in return.” 

 “Ha. I passed him just beyond the gates, and he was deaf to my greeting. ’Tis a most cursed insufferable pup.” 

 “Art a judge of men, Lal.” Sir Oliver stood up booted. “I am for Arwenack to exchange a compliment or two with Sir John.” 

 His tight-pressed lips and resolute air supplemented his words so well that Lionel clutched his arm. 

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