POT-VALIANCE


Then drink it thus, cried the rash young fool, and splashed the contents
of his cup full into the face of Mr. Wilding even as that gentleman, on
his feet, was proposing to drink to the eyes of the young fool's sister.

The moments that followed were full of interest. A stillness, a
brooding, expectant stillness, fell upon the company - and it numbered
a round dozen - about Lord Gervase's richly appointed board. In the soft
candlelight the oval table shone like a deep brown pool, in which were
reflected the gleaming silver and sparkling crystal that seemed to float
upon it.

Blake sucked in his nether-lip, his florid face a thought less florid
than its wont, his prominent blue eyes a thought more prominent. Under
its golden periwig old Nick Trenchard's wizened countenance was darkened
by a scowl, and his fingers, long, swarthy, and gnarled, drummed
fretfully upon the table. Portly Lord Gervase Scoresby - their host, a
benign and placid man of peace, detesting turbulence -turned crimson now
in wordless rage. The others gaped and stared - some at young Westmacott,
some at the man he had so grossly affronted - whilst in the shadows of
the hall a couple of lacqueys looked on amazed, all teeth and eyes.

Mr. Wilding stood, very still and outwardly impasive, the wine trickling
from his long face, which, if pale, was no paler than its habit, a
vestige of the smile with which he had proposed the toast still
lingering on his thin lips, though departed from his eyes. An elegant
gentleman was Mr. Wilding, tall, and seeming even taller by virtue of
his exceeding slenderness. He had the courage to wear his own hair,