"
It is easy to imagine the scene. The long, low-ceilinged room, lit by
candles, reeking of dinner and of wine. Eliott, still brooding over his
defeat in the recent parliamentary election, bent on picking a quarrel;
Stewart, amiable and for a time conciliatory, till goaded beyond
endurance; the two officers, very red in the face, laughing and treating
the whole affair as a huge joke; and Timpendean, the while, in a
monotonous loud bawl, chanting, very much out of tune, a song, most of
the verses of which he forgot before he had sung two lines, ever
starting afresh _ad nauseam_, after the manner of drunken men. It was
not a seemly spectacle, but it was the fashion of the day, and but for
Eliott all might have ended with no worse effect than a bad headache
next morning. But for Eliott--unfortunately. Nothing, apparently, would
satisfy that gentleman. Colonel Stewart had let fall words which were
twisted into an affront. The Colonel assured him that no such words had
passed his lips; but that if he had by chance uttered anything which
could be construed as an insult, or if anything said by him had hurt Sir
Gilbert's feelings, he was sorry for it, and he willingly apologised.
Then Sir Gilbert must needs drag in politics. There was the burning
question of the late election.
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