And now Trenchard seemed to be pulling himself together.
"I want to talk to you, Richard," said he, and although thick, there was in his voice a certain impressive quality that had been absent hitherto.
"'S a rumour current." He lowered his voice to a whisper almost, and, leaning across, took his companion by the arm.

He hiccoughed noisily, then began again.

"'S a rumour current, sweetheart, that you're disaffected." Richard started, and his mind flapped and struggled like a trapped bird to escape the meshes of the wine, to the end that he might convincingly defend himself from such an imputation--so dangerously true.
"'S a lie!" he gasped.
Trenchard shut one eye and owlishly surveyed his companion with the other.

"They say," he added, "that you're for forsaking 'Duke's party." "Villainous!" Richard protested.

"I'll sli' throat of any man 't says so." And draining the pewter at his elbow, he smashed it down on the table to emphasize his seriousness.
Trenchard replenished it with the utmost promptness, then sat back in his tall chair and pulled a moment at the fresh pipe with which he had equipped himself.
"I think I espy,"' he quoted presently, "'virtue and valour crouched in thine eye.' And yet.., and yet...