Wingate raised his eyebrows but made no response.  Dredlinton shook his head reproachfully at Miss Lane.

“Flossie,” he continued, “you ought to know better.  Besides, you will waste your time.  Mr. Wingate’s taste in women is of a very—­superior order.  Doesn’t care about your sort at all.  He likes saints.  That’s right, isn’t it, Wingate?”

“You seem to know,” was the cool reply.

“Not ’t tall sure,” Dredlinton went on, balancing himself with difficulty, “that your new conquest would altogether approve of this, you know.  Wingate, let me tell you that Flossie is a very dangerous young lady—­destroys the peace of everybody—­can’t sleep myself for thinking of her.  Not your sort at all, Wingate.  We know your sort, don’t we, eh?”

Wingate remained contemptuously silent.  Kendrick rose from his place and laid his hand on Dredlinton’s shoulder.

“Come and sit down, Dredlinton,” he said shortly.  “You’re making an idiot of yourself.”

“Go to hell!” the other replied truculently.  “Who are you?  Just that man’s broker, that’s all.  Want to sell wheat, Wingate, or buy it, eh?”

Wingate looked at him steadily.

“You’re drunk,” he said.  “I should advise you to get a friend to take you home.”

“Drunk, am I?” Dredlinton shouted.  “What if I am?  I’m a better man drunk than you are sober—­although she may not think so, eh?”

Wingate looked at him from underneath level brows.

“I should advise you not to mention any names here,” he said.

“I like that!” the other scoffed.  “Not to mention any names, eh?  He’ll forbid me next to talk about my own wife.”

“You’d be a cur if you did,” Wingate told him.

A little spot of colour burned in Dredlinton’s cheeks.  For a moment he showed his teeth.  But for Kendrick’s restraining arm, he seemed as though he would have thrown himself across the table.  Then, with a great effort, he regained command of himself.

“So you won’t sell wheat and you won’t buy wheat, Mr. American!” he jeered.  “I know what you would like to buy, though—­and, damn it all, there’s old Dreadnought Phipps down there—­he’s a bidder, too—­ain’t you, Phipps, old boy?  What you see in her, either of you, I don’t know!  She’s no use to me.”

Phipps rose in his place.  Sir Frederick Houstley left his chair and came round to Dredlinton.

“Lord Dredlinton,” he said, “I think you had better leave.”

“I’ll leave when I damned well please!” was the quick reply.  “Don’t you lose your wool, old Freddy.  This is going to be a joke.  You listen.  I tell you what I’ll do.  I’m a poor man—­devilish poor—­and it takes a lot of money to enjoy oneself, nowadays.  You’re all in this.  Sit tight and listen.  We’ll have an auction.”

Wingate rose slowly to his feet, pushed his chair back and stood behind it.  Flossie gripped him by the wrist.

“Don’t take any notice of him, please, Mr. Wingate,” she implored, in an agonised whisper.  “For my sake, don’t!  He’s dangerous when he’s like this.  I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”