"I apprehended you exactly, sir," he answered, defiance in his voice
and wine-flushed face.

"Ha!" clucked Trenchard, irrepressible. "He's bent on self-destruction.
Let him have his way, in God's name."

But Wilding seemed intent upon showing how long-suffering he could be.
He gently shook his head. "Nay, now," said he. "You thought, Mr.
Westmacott, that in mentioning your sister, I did so lightly. Is it
not so?"

"You mentioned her, and that is all that matters," cried Westmacott.
"I'll not have her name on your lips at any time or in any place - no,
nor in any manner." His speech was thick from too much wine.

"You are drunk," cried indignant Lord Gervase with finality.

"Pot-valiant," Trenchard elaborated.

Mr. Wilding set down at last the glass which he had continued to hold
until that moment. He rested his hands upon the table, knuckles
downward, and leaning forward he spoke impressively, his face very
grave; and those present - knowing him as they did - were one and all
lost in wonder at his unusual patience.

"Mr. Westmacott," said he, "I do think you are wrong to persist in
affronting me. You have done a thing that is beyond forgiveness, and
yet, when I offer you this opportunity of honourably retrieving..."
He shrugged his shoulders, leaving the sentence incomplete.