"Idiot," snarled the young gentleman whose temper inebriation had
soured, "why the devil didn't you come here earlier? The coup might have
been brought off to-night. Gad, I want rousing. I'm just in the mood,
and the sight of that pretty, saucy, baggage--oh, you're a damned fool,
Rofflash!"
"If Mr. Dorrimore will condescend to await my explanation," swaggered
Rofflash with drunken dignity, "he will admit that I've done nothing
foolish--nothing not permissible to a man of honour."
"Devil take your honour."
"Granted sir. The subject is not under discussion at the present moment.
Now, sir, what happened? As I've already informed you, I came across the
young poppinjay and the girl sweethearting on Moor Fields. She was in
his arms...."
"In his arms! S'death! I'll run the impudent upstart through for that.
The girl's mine, by God. Where's the fellow to be found?"
"All in good time, sir. Have a little patience. Aye, she was in his arms
but it's only fair to say that she had gone into a swoon."
"A swoon? What the devil made her swoon? She's never swooned in _my_
arms and I've clipped her close enough. She giggled and tittered I grant
you, but never the ghost of a swoon."
"There's no rule for the mad humour of a woman, as you must know, Mr.
Dorrimore."
"But swooning--that's a sign she was in earnest. She was never in
earnest with me--just a hoyden asking to be won.
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