I never drink nor play at this time of day, Sir James. If it
will not inconvenience you to let me pass----"

With a foolish laugh, beside himself with rage and drink, Craven flung him
back into his chair. "'Sdeath, don't be in such a hurry! I want to talk to
you about-- Devil take it, what is it I want to talk about?-- Oh, yes! That
pink and white baggage of yours. Stap me, the one look ravished me! Pity
you let a slip of a lad like Montagu oust you."

"That subject is one which we will not discuss, Sir James," said Volney
quietly. "It is not to be mentioned in my presence."

"The devil it isn't. I'm not in the habit of asking what I may talk about.
As for this mistress of yours----"

Sir Robert rose and stood very straight. "I have the honour to inform you
that you are talking of a lady who is as pure as the driven snow."

Buck Craven stared. "After Sir Robert Volney has pursued her a year?" he
asked with venomous spleen, his noisy laugh echoing through the room.

I can imagine how the fellow said it, with what a devilish concentration
of malice. He had the most irritating manner of any man in England; I
never heard him speak without wanting to dash my fist in his sneering
face.

"That is what I tell you. I repeat that the subject is not a matter for
discussion between us."

Craven might have read a warning in the studied gentleness of Volney's
cold manner, but he was by this time far beyond reck. By common consent
the eyes of every man in the room were turned on these two, and Craven's
vanity sunned itself at holding once more the centre of the stage.

"And after the trull has gadded about the country with young Montagu in
all manner of disguises?" he continued.

"You lie, you hound!"

Sir James sputtered in a speechless paroxysm of passion, found words at
last and poured them out in a turbid torrent of invective. He let fall the
word baggage again, and presently, growing more plain, a word that is not
to be spoken of an honest woman. Volney, eyeing him disdainfully, the
man's coarse bulk, his purple cheeks and fishy eyes, played with his wine
goblet, white fingers twisting at the stem; then, when the measure of the
fellow's offense was full, put a period to his foul eloquence.

Full in the mouth the goblet struck him. Blood spurted from his lips, and
a shower of broken glass shivered to the ground. Craven leaped across the
table at his enemy in a blind fury; restrained by the united efforts of
half a doz