“God forbid, little man! What have I done to incur this wrath?”
“You must know, sir, that I had an engagement this morning to meet Mr. Rensley out at Grey’s Inn Fields. In this I’m baulked by Sir Anthony Fanshawe. I can’t pretend to be pleased.”
She had the feeling she was being watched all the time. He smiled a little, and made a slight bow. “Oh, I cry your pardon, Mr. Fire-Eater. But your complaints were better addressed to Rensley than to me.”
Prudence said coolly:—“You may be very sure Mr. Rensley will hear from me just so soon as he leaves the surgeon’s care.” It seemed to her that the straight brows rose in momentary surprise. She went on. “Charles is of the opinion I can’t meet the man, but for myself I conceive that so far from considering myself debarred from fighting him after this insult I have the more reason. If Charles won’t act for me—faith, his sense of propriety in these matters is prodigious!—may I call on you, sir?” This was something of a bold move, to be sure, but by the time Mr. Rensley was recovered there would be no Mr. Merriot in town, she believed.
“I’m of Belfort’s opinion, little man,” Sir Anthony said slowly. “You are exempt from the obligation of meeting Rensley.”
“By your leave, sir. I think the choice rests with me.” She looked up with an assumption of displeasure. “Next time I trust there will be nothing to hinder our meeting,” she said.
“Myself, for instance?” Sir Anthony put up his glass. “I believe I don’t repeat myself.”
She bowed and let it go at that. A servant came to announce dinner, and Sir Anthony led the way into the dining-room at the back of the house.
There were wax candles in wrought holders on the table, and silver winking in the golden light. Two chairs were set, and two places laid, with wine in cut-glass decanters, shining covers, and fine white napery.
They sat down, Sir Anthony at the head of the small table, and Prudence on his left. Dishes were presented to her; she made a fair meal, and the talk ran merrily. Sir Anthony spoke of a visit to Newmarket, and begged Prudence’s company. When she paused before making reply he said provocatively:—“You daren’t say me nay this time, Peter. Remember my displeasure on another such occasion.”
She suspected him of teasing her and looked up smilingly. “What, am I supposed to fear that, sir?”
Sir Anthony was busy with the carving of a chicken, but he found time to meet the challenge in the grey eyes with a look quizzical and humorous. “Don’t you, little man?”
Well, if the truth be told, one did fear it. But what was the gentleman’s drift? “I take that to be a reflection on my courage,” she said gaily. “I believe I’ve no cause to fear you.”
“You never can tell,” Sir Anthony answered. “I might lose patience with so fugitive and reserved a youth. Then have you naught to fear?”
Was this a threat, perchance? No, for the large gentleman was smiling with the same good-humour. “Oh, am I to be called out?” she wondered.
“Acquit me of child murder. But I might refuse to scare away the wolf—a second time.”
She sipped the Burgundy in her glass, and frowned a little, “Ah!” She set down the half-empty glass, and her host filled it again. It was the second time. “You lead me to suppose, sir, that what you did yesterday was in the nature of wolf-scaring?”
“Would you call it that?” Sir Anthony filled his own glass very leisurely. “I had thought it more in the nature of disabling the wolf.”
“If you like. Then what I suspected was truth indeed?” She looked steadily at him, with some dignity in her glance.
“That depends, young man, on what your suspicions were.”
“I thought, sir, that you had intervened—quite incomprehensibly—on my behalf.”
“But why incomprehensibly?” inquired Sir Anthony.
This was something of a check. “Well, sir, I believe I am not, after all, just out of the nursery, though it pleases you to think so. I’m grateful for the kindliness of the action, but—frankly, Sir Anthony, I had rather be given the chance to prove my mettle.”
There came a fleeting look of admiration into the eyes that rested so enigmatically on her face, but it was so transient an expression that she doubted she had been mistaken. “I compliment you, boy. But prove your mettle on one nearer your own age.”
She bowed, and for form’s sake sipped at her wine again. A dish of nuts was pushed towards her; she chose one and cracked it without having recourse to the silver crackers in the dish. A boy’s trick, and she hoped the large gentleman noted it well.
The indolent voice continued. “Though to be sure I’d an idea your mettle had been proved already. You’ve had an engagement before this.”
She was peeling the nut, and her fingers did not falter, though she was taken by surprise. What was he at now, pray? She looked up inquiringly, but had sense enough to commit herself to nothing.
“Some duel when you sustained a wound in the shoulder,” said Sir Anthony.
She was at a momentary loss, and knew herself closely scrutinized. Recollection of the night when she was set on by Mohocks returned to her. She remembered the excuse manufactured on the spur of the moment for Belfort’s edification. “True, Sir Anthony, but that took place abroad.”
“Like so many of your experiences,” nodded Sir Anthony, and again picked up the decanter. “But you don’t drink, my dear boy.”
She thought she drank a deal too much of this heavy Burgundy, and deplored the absence of claret. Once more her glass was filled. To refuse it would give food for suspicion in these days of hard drinking. She swallowed some of the deep red wine, was aware of a lazy glance upon her, and emptied the
