He would have spoken, but he lacked words, so stricken was he. And even
had he done so it is odds none would have heard him, for the late calm
was of a sudden turned to garboil. Every man of that company - with the
sole exception of Richard himself - was on his feet, and all were
speaking at once, in clamouring, excited chorus.

Wilding alone - the butt of their expostulations - stood quietly
smiling, and wiped his face at last with a kerchief of finest lawn.
Dominating the others in the Babel rose the voice of Sir Rowland
Blake - impecunious Blake; Blake lately of the Guards, who had sold
his commission as the only thing remaining him upon which he could
raise money; Blake, that other suitor for Miss Westmacott's hand, the
suitor favoured by her brother.

"You shall not do it, Mr. Wilding," he shouted, his face crimson. "No,
by God! You were shamed forever. He is but a lad, and drunk."

Trenchard eyed the short, powerfully built man beside him, and laughed
unpleasantly. "You should get yourself bled one of these days, Sir
Rowland," he advised. "There may be no great danger yet; but a man
can't be too careful when he wears a narrow neckcloth."

Blake - a short, powerfully built man - took no heed of him, but looked
straight at Mr. Wilding, who, smiling ever, calmly returned the gaze of
those prominent blue eyes.

"You will suffer me, Sir Rowland," said he sweetly, "to be the judge
of whom I will and whom I will not meet."