Ripton was ejected, and found himself standing alone in the street. As
he was on the point of rushing after the galloping cab-horse to get a
word of elucidation, he heard some one speak behind him.

"You are Feverel's friend?"

Ripton had an eye for lords. An ambrosial footman, standing at the open
door of Lord Mountfalcon's house, and a gentleman standing on the
doorstep, told him that he was addressed by that nobleman. He was
requested to step into the house. When they were alone, Lord
Mountfalcon, slightly ruffled, said: "Feverel has insulted me grossly. I
must meet him, of course. It's a piece of infernal folly!--I suppose he
is not quite mad?"

Ripton's only definite answer was, a gasping iteration of "My lord."

My lord resumed: "I am perfectly guiltless of offending him, as far as I
know. In fact, I had a friendship for him. Is he liable to fits of this
sort of thing?"

Not yet at conversation-point, Ripton stammered: "Fits, my lord?"

"Ah!" went the other, eying Ripton in lordly cognizant style. "You know
nothing of this business, perhaps?"

Ripton said he did not.

"Have you any influence with him?"