The colonel’s eyes kindled.  Temple’s perfect repose—­something he had not expected—­was beginning to get on his nerves, He cleared his throat impressively and continued, his voice rising in intensity: 

“Instead of leading the life of a young man brought up as a gentleman, I hear he is consorting with the lowest class of people here in your house—­people who—­”

“—­Are my guests,” interrupted St. George calmly—­loosening the buttons of his coat in search of his handkerchief—­there being more tobacco on his clothes than he had supposed.

“Yes, you have hit it exactly—­your guests—­and that is another thing I have come to tell you, for neither I nor your friends can understand how a man of your breeding should want to surround himself with—­”

—­“Is it necessary that you should understand, Talbot?”—­same low, incisive but extremely civil voice, almost monotonous in its cadences.  The cambric was in full play now.

“Of course it is necessary when it affects my own flesh and blood.  You know as well as I do that this sot, Poe, is not a fit companion for a boy raised as my Harry has been—­a man picked out of the gutter—­his family a lot of play-actors—­even worse, I hear.  A fellow who staggers into your house dead drunk and doesn’t sober up for a week!  It’s scandalous!”

Again St. George shrugged his shoulders, but one hand was tight shut this time, the steel claws protruding, the handkerchief alone saving their points from pressing into the palms.

“And is that what you came from Moorlands to tell me, Talbot?” remarked St. George casually, adjusting the lapels of his coat.

“Yes!” retorted Rutter—­he was fast losing what was left of his self-control—­“that and some other things!  But we will attend to Harry first.  You gave that boy shelter when—­”

“Please state it correctly, Talbot.  We can get on better if you stick to the facts.”  The words came slowly, but the enunciation was as perfect as if each syllable had been parted with a knife.  “I didn’t give him shelter—­I gave him a home—­one you denied him.  But go on—­I prefer to hear you out.”

The colonel’s eyes blazed.  He had never seen St. George like this:  it was Temple’s hot outbursts that had made him so easy an adversary in their recent disputes.

“And you will please do the same, St. George,” he demanded in his most top-lofty tone, ignoring his opponent’s denial.  “You know perfectly well I turned him out of Moorlands because he had disgraced his blood, and yet you—­my life-long friend—­have had the bad taste to interfere and drag him down still lower, so that now, instead of coming to his senses and asking my pardon, he parades himself at the club and at your dinners, putting on the airs of an injured man.”

St. George drew himself up to his full height.