The room into which they all crowded was no more than a closet,
containing a dusty bureau propped on three legs, a few books, and Mr.
Thomasson's robes, boots, and wig-stand. It was so small that when they
were all in it, they stood perforce close together, and had the air of
persons sheltering from a storm. This nearness, the glare of the lamp on
their faces, and the mean surroundings gave a kind of added force to Mr.
Dunborough's rage. For a moment after entering he could not speak; he
had dined largely, and sat long after dinner; and his face was suffused
with blood. But then, 'Tommy, who is--this--fellow?' he cried, blurting
out the words as if each must be the last.

'Good heavens!' cried the tutor, shocked at the low appellation.' Mr.
Dunborough! Mr. Dunborough! You mistake. My dear sir, my dear friend,
you do not understand. This is Sir George Soane, whose name must be
known to you. Permit me to introduce him.'

'Then take that for a meddler and a coxcomb, Sir George Soane!' cried
the angry man; and quick as thought he struck Sir George, who was at
elbows with him, lightly in the face.

Sir George stepped back, his face crimson. 'You are not sober, sir!' he
said.

'Is not that enough?' cried the other, drowning both Mr. Thomasson's
exclamation of horror and Lord Almeric's protest of, 'Oh, but I say, you
know--' under the volume of his voice. 'You have a sword, sir, and I
presume you know how to use it. If there is not space here, there is a
room below, and I am at your service. You will not wipe that off by
rubbing it,' he added coarsely.