They got up, both of them—­and stood there, looking shy and stupefied and very much the worse for wear:—­hair ruffled, faces discoloured, shirts torn open.  One of Roy’s stockings was slipping down; and, in the midst of his confused sensations, he heard the excited voice of Mrs Bradley urgently demanding to know what her “poor dear boy” could have done to be treated like that.

No one seemed to answer her; and the poor dear boy was too busy comforting his nose to take much interest in the proceedings.

Lady Despard (you could tell at a glance she was Tara’s mother) was on her knees comforting Christine; and as Roy’s senses cleared, he saw with a throb of relief that his mother was not there.  But Aunt Jane was—­and Uncle Cuthbert——­

He seemed to stand there panting and aching in an endless silence, full of eyes.  He did not know that his father was giving him a few seconds to recover himself.

Then:  “What do you mean by it, Roy?” he asked; and this time his voice was really stern.  It hurt more than the bruises.  “Gentlemen don’t hammer their guests.”  This was an unexpected blow.  And it wasn’t fair.  How could he explain before “all those”?  His cheeks were burning, his head was aching; and tears, that must not be allowed to fall, were pricking like needles under his lids.

It was Tara who spoke—­still clutching Prince, lest he overwhelm Roy and upset his hardly maintained dignity.

“Joe made him angry—­he did,” she thrust in with feminine officiousness; and was checked by her mother’s warning finger.

Mrs Bradley—­long and thin and beaky—­bore down upon her battered son, who edged away sullenly from proffered caresses.

Sir Nevil, not daring to meet the humorous eye of Cuthbert Broome—­still contemplated the dishevelled dignity of his own small son—­half puzzled, half vexed.

“You’ve done it now, Roy.  Say you’re sorry,” he prompted; his voice a shade less stern than he intended.

Roy shook his head.

“It’s him to say—­not me.”

“Did he begin it?”

“No.”

“Of course he didn’t,” snapped the injured mother.  “He’s been properly brought up,” which was not exactly polite, but she was beside herself—­simply an irate mother-creature, all beak and ruffled feathers.  “You deserve to be whipped.  You’ve hurt him badly.”

“Oh, dry up, mother,” Joe murmured behind his sanguinary handkerchief, edging still further away from maternal fussings and possible catechism.

Nevil Sinclair saw clearly that his son would neither apologise nor explain.  At heart he suspected young Bradley, if only on account of his insufferable mother, but the laws of hospitality must be upheld.

“Go to your own room, Roy,” he said with creditable severity, “and stay there till I come.”

Roy gave him one look—­mutely reproachful.  Then—­to every one’s surprise and Tara’s delight—­he walked straight up to the Enemy.