It was Lord Gervase who broke at last the silence--broke it with an oath, a thing unusual in one whose nature was almost woman-mild.
"As God's my life!" he spluttered wrathfully, glowering at Richard.

"To have this happen in my house! The young fool shall make apology!" "With his dying breath," sneered Trenchard, and the old rake's words, his tone, and the malevolent look he bent upon the boy increased the company's malaise.
"I think," said Mr.Wilding, with a most singular and excessive sweetness, "that what Mr.Westmacott has done he has done because he apprehended me amiss." "No doubt he'll say so," opined Trenchard with a shrug, and had caution dug into his ribs by Blake's elbow, whilst Richard made haste to prove him wrong by saying the contrary.
"I apprehended you exactly, sir," he answered, defiance in his voice and wine-flushed face.
"Ha!" clucked Trenchard, irrepressible.

"He's bent on self-destruction.
Let him have his way, in God's name." But Wilding seemed intent upon showing how long-suffering he could be.

He gently shook his head.

"Nay, now," said he.