The Lion's Skin. Rafael Sabatini
one's rank on one side, in forgetting at times that by an accident—a sheer, incredible accident, I assure you, Leduc—one may have been born to a gentleman's estate.”
Rotherby had drawn himself up, his dark face crimsoning.
“D'ye talk at me, sir?” he demanded. “D'ye dare discuss me with your lackey?”
“But why not, since you search me with my tipstaff! If you can perceive a difference, you are too subtle for me, sir.”
Rotherby advanced a step; then checked. He inherited mental sluggishness from his father. “You are insolent!” he charged Caryll. “You insult me.”
“Indeed! Ha! I am working miracles.”
Rotherby governed his anger by an effort. “There was enough between us without this,” said he.
“There could not be too much between us—too much space, I mean.”
The viscount looked at him furiously. “I shall discuss this further with you,” said he. “The present is not the time nor place. But I shall know where to look for you.”
“Leduc, I am sure, will always be pleased to see you. He, too, is studying manners.”
Rotherby ignored the insult. “We shall see, then, whether you can do anything more than talk.”
“I hope that your lordship, too, is master of other accomplishments. As a talker, I do not find you very gifted. But perhaps Leduc will be less exigent than I.”
“Bah!” his lordship flung at him, and went out, cursing him profusely, Gaskell following at his master's heels.
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