'
'Oh, come, Pickering!' said Lord Wetherby. 'Come, come, come!'
Mr Pickering found that his accusers were ebbing away. Lady
Wetherby had gone. Claire had gone. Only Lord Wetherby remained,
looking at him like a pained groom. He dashed from the place and
followed his hostess, speaking incoherently of burglars,
outhouses, and misunderstandings. He even mentioned Chingachgook.
But Lady Wetherby would not listen. Nobody would listen.
He found Lord Wetherby at his side, evidently prepared to go
deeper into the subject. Lord Wetherby was looking now like a
groom whose favourite horse has kicked him in the stomach.
'Wouldn't have thought it of you, Pickering,' said Lord Wetherby.
Mr Pickering found no words. 'Wouldn't, honestly. Low trick!'
'But I tell you--'
'Devilish low trick!' repeated Lord Wetherby, with a shake of the
head. 'Laws of hospitality--eaten our bread and salt, what!--all
that sort of thing--kill valuable monkey--not done, you know--low,
very low!'
And he followed his wife, now in full retreat, with scorn and
repulsion written in her very walk.
'Mr Pickering!'
It was Claire. She stood there, holding something towards him,
something that glittered in the moonlight. Her voice was hard, and
the expression on her face suggested that in her estimation he was
a particularly low-grade worm, one of the submerged tenth of the
worm world.
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