my solemn word of honour," said the noble Master, speaking from the depths, "she was within two inches of the old gal's stern."
"Parkins," said a voice from the breakfast table, "bring another glass of beer for his lordship."
To be perfectly frank, liquid sustenance was no longer a vital necessity to the noble Master. He was already rosy with indignation at the sudden memory of his wrongs. Only one thing can induce Brasset to display even a normal amount of spirit. That is the welfare of the sacred charges over which he presides for the public weal. He will suffer you to punch his head, to tread on his toe, or to call him names, and as likely as not he will apologise sweetly for any inconvenience you may have incurred in the process. But if you belittle the Crackanthorpe Hounds or in any way endanger the humblest member of the Fitzwilliam strain, woe unto you. You transform Brasset into a veritable man of blood and iron. He is invested with pathos and dignity. The lightnings of heaven flash from beneath his long-lashed orbs; and from his somewhat narrow chest there is bodied forth a far richer vocabulary than the general inefficiency of his appearance can possibly warrant hi any conceivable circumstances.
Mere feminine clamour was silenced by Brasset transformed. His blue eyes glowed, his cheeks grew rosier, each particular hair of his perfectly charming little blond moustache – trimmed by Truefitt once a fortnight – stood up on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine. In lieu of pink abasement was tawny denunciation.
"I'll admit, Arbuthnot," said the Man of Blood and Iron, "I looked at the woman as no man ought to look at a lady."
"Didn't you say 'damn,' Lord Brasset?" piped a demure seeker after knowledge.
"I may have done, Mrs. Arbuthnot, I admit I may have done."
"I think that ought to go down on the depositions," said I, with an approximation to the manner of my uncle, the judge, that was very tolerable for an amateur.
"I honour you for it, Lord Brasset. Don't you, Mary?"
"Endeavour not to embarrass the witness," said I. "Go on, Brasset."
"Brasset, here's your beer," said Jodey, rising from the table and personally handing the Burton brew with vast solemnity.
"I may have damned her eyes," proceeded the witness, "or I mayn't have done. You see, she was within two inches of the old gal, and I may have lost my head for a bit. I'll admit that no man ought to damn the eyes of a lady. Mind, I don't say I did. And yet I don't say I didn't. It all happened before you could say 'knife,' and I'll admit I was rattled."
"The witness admits he was rattled," said I.
"So would you have been, old son," the witness continued magniloquently. "Within two inches, upon my oath."
"Were there reprisals on the part of the lady whose eyes you had damned in a moment of mental duress?"
"Rather. She damned mine in Dutch."
Sensation.
"How did you know it was Dutch, Lord Brasset?" piped a seeker of knowledge.
"By the behaviour of the hounds, Mrs. Arbuthnot."
"How did they behave?"
"The beggars bolted."
Sensation.
"My aunt!" said the occupant of the breakfast table with solemn irrelevance.
"So would you," said the noble Master. "I never heard anything like it. In my opinion there is no language like Dutch when it comes to cursing. And then, before I could blink, up went her hand, and she gave me one over the head with her crop."
Sensation.
"Upon my solemn word of honour. I don't mind showing the mark to anybody."
"Where is it, Lord Brasset?"
Mrs. Arbuthnot rose from her chair in the ecstatic pursuit of first-hand information. Her eyes were wide and glowing like those of her small daughter, Miss Lucinda, when she hears the story of "The Three Bears."
"Show me the scar, Reggie," said a Minerva-like voice.
"Let's see it, Brasset," said the occupant of the breakfast table, kicking over a piece of Chippendale of the best period and incidentally breaking the back of it.
The somewhat melodramatic investigations of a thick layer of Rowland's Macassar oil and a thin layer of fair hair disclosed an unmistakable weal immediately above the left temple of the noble martyr in the cause of public duty.
"If it don't beat cockfighting!" said Jodey in a tone of undisguised admiration.
"If it hadn't been for the rim of my cap," said the noble martyr in response to the public enthusiasm, "it must have laid my head clean open."
"In my opinion," said Mary Catesby, speaking ex cathedra, "that woman is a perfect devil. Reggie, if you only show firmness you can count upon support. They may stand that sort of thing in a Continental circus, but we don't stand it in the Crackanthorpe Hunt."
"Firmness, Brasset," said I, anxious, like all the world, to echo the oracle.
The little blond moustache was subjected to inhuman treatment.
"It's all very well, you know, but what's the use of being firm with a person who is just as firm as yourself?"
The Great Lady snorted.
"For three years, Reggie, you have filled a difficult office passably well. Don't let a little thing like this be your undoing."
"All very well, Mrs. Catesby, but I can't hit her over the head, can I?"
"No, but what about Fitz?" said a voice from the breakfast table.
"Ye-es, I hadn't thought of that."
"And I shouldn't think of it if I were you," said I, cordially. "Fitz with all his errors is a heftier chap than you are, my son."
Brasset's jaw dropped doubtfully – it is quite a good jaw, by the way.
"Practise the left a bit, Brasset," was the advice of the breakfast table. "I know a chap in Jermyn Street who has had lessons from Burns. We might trot up and see him after lunch. Bring a Bradshaw, Parkins. And I think we had better send a wire."
"I wasn't so bad with my left when I was up at Trinity," said Brasset.
Mrs. Arbuthnot shuddered audibly. She has long been an out-and-out admirer of the noble Master's nose. Certainly its contour has great elegance and refinement.
"Brasset," said I, "let me urge you not to listen to evil communications. If you were Burns himself you would do well to play very lightly with Fitz. He was my fag at school, and although sometimes there was occasion to visit him with an ash plant or a toasting fork in the manner prescribed by the house regulations at that ancient seat of learning, I shouldn't advise you or anybody else to undertake a scheme of personal chastisement."
"Certainly not, Reggie," said Mary Catesby, in response to Mrs. Arbuthnot's imploring gaze. "Odo is perfectly right. Besides, you must behave like a gentleman. It is the woman with whom you must deal."
"Well, I can't hit her, can I?" said Brasset, plaintively.
"If
